tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-75654690305399178332024-03-15T18:10:05.186-07:00Ben There, Done ThatMy last name is pronounced shi-LAD-ee (roughly rhymes with beef patty). I love puns, cacti, eating out, and good punctuation in text messages. I'm a lifelong Latter-day Saint and I'm gay.Benhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/04151204932376899998noreply@blogger.comBlogger204125tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7565469030539917833.post-60682375456307814742023-08-02T14:35:00.000-07:002023-08-02T14:35:00.283-07:00Hurt Hearts and New Starts<p> </p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEglk_0T-aO0vMFZJZusHyQIol9Wcc8NC5E4-rYoEiXpGQxNHUDSfyyqmzx6whi70avGOocyfWa-6KIlbw06-_-uTcvdJH1TFqn7woC3-vmv0ZhBk3itop2vEmkDfux26yjkJ0P7xjT3BeMKZuLpn7ypRek7FyumbOi_CHwWwf9wSlxEX_TvFXf8yivWRkTg/s4032/heart.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="4032" data-original-width="3024" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEglk_0T-aO0vMFZJZusHyQIol9Wcc8NC5E4-rYoEiXpGQxNHUDSfyyqmzx6whi70avGOocyfWa-6KIlbw06-_-uTcvdJH1TFqn7woC3-vmv0ZhBk3itop2vEmkDfux26yjkJ0P7xjT3BeMKZuLpn7ypRek7FyumbOi_CHwWwf9wSlxEX_TvFXf8yivWRkTg/s320/heart.jpg" width="240" /></a></div><br /><p></p><p>In every relationship with someone I deeply love–parents, siblings, roommates, friends–I have hurt them or they have hurt me. When humans enter into close relationships, we hurt one another. One of the people who has hurt me the most in my life is a Church leader I have never met. <br /><br />In my early 20s when I was deep in the closet and trying so hard to change my orientation, I came across some things this Church leader had said about same-sex attraction. As I read through these statements I thought, <i>I’d be better off dead than gay</i>. His words were intended to give comfort, but instead created feelings of despair. Years later I was listening to one of his General Conference talks and thought, <i>I don’t belong in this Church</i>. A handful of his words led me to wish for death and another handful led to me feeling excluded. I know this was not his intent, but this was the effect for me. <br /><br />A few years later while listening to another person talk about this Church leader I felt a sudden and unexpected peace wash over me. I felt a clarity that his calling was divinely appointed and that he was striving to follow the Savior’s example. And yet even after this experience, I still tensed up every time I watched him approach a pulpit. <br /><br />A few years ago a friend mentioned that he had just purchased this leader’s biography. I had just finished teaching a class at BYU where we regularly discussed the importance of proximity, getting close to people who are different, and hearing others’ stories. So I bought a copy of the biography even though it was a hardback and a little pricey. As I read, I saw a lot of myself in this man who had hurt me. I thought that we would actually be great friends if we knew each other in real life. <br /><br />About a third of the way into the book I felt a prompting to listen to every General Conference talk he’d ever given. I opened up the Gospel Library app and determined to listen to each talk in order. The next day I was doing yard work as I listened to the first talk he gave. As I heard him speak, I felt the Spirit heal parts of me that had been damaged. I yanked weeds out of the garden and felt weeds pulled out of my own heart as well. That night I prayed, “Thank you, Heavenly Father, for the words and teachings of this leader. They are inviting me to be better”<br /><br />As I kept reading his biography and listening to his talks, I came across the words he said that had hurt me in the past. And they still hurt. But now they were contextualized in his entire life because I’d taken the time to get to know him. The pain was still there, but my understanding was greater. <br /><br />In the middle of these weeks I spent immersed in his life and words, I was asked to speak at a two day YSA conference that he would also be speaking at. The organizer told me I’d be seated on the stand and would get to meet him. I asked if it would be appropriate to give him a copy of my book. “Absolutely!” he said. Now that I had spent so much time getting to know him, I was pumped for him to get to know me. I signed a copy of my book and wrote a thank you note for him on the inside cover. <br /><br />And then the conference schedule shifted, plans changed, and I spoke the day before he did. I knew I wouldn’t be sitting on the stand with him anymore, but I brought the book anyway hoping I’d be able to give it to him. That opportunity never materialized and I returned home with an undelivered, signed copy of my book. However, the moment I remember from that day was watching him and his wife walk into the room. As we all stood to greet them, the first thought that came into my mind was, <i>I love you</i>. How could I not love someone I had just spent so much time with? </p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiXqsxp2hETJajcr4cqrJk3T4wZZ6xSM8kwEw7AXQk0Llu8PU9EchcvAmkkkX-_E5N7pb5WRwZEbKDZjcxlBSfpyMf_zAtxlbmc2WgxUw2ZoReSyzwt_E9aApIx8QLQOGakek8O_Tm7QZ2ZIGn9kvrKyFrgwj6xrnYj1veIF3RE70kasNjqGS_f14zv7PgM/s4032/balance.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="4032" data-original-width="3024" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiXqsxp2hETJajcr4cqrJk3T4wZZ6xSM8kwEw7AXQk0Llu8PU9EchcvAmkkkX-_E5N7pb5WRwZEbKDZjcxlBSfpyMf_zAtxlbmc2WgxUw2ZoReSyzwt_E9aApIx8QLQOGakek8O_Tm7QZ2ZIGn9kvrKyFrgwj6xrnYj1veIF3RE70kasNjqGS_f14zv7PgM/s320/balance.jpg" width="240" /></a></div><p>I understand that there are many Church members who live in a world where it’s impossible for an apostle to cause hurt. Any perceived hurt I have felt, they say, is my own fault. And others assert that he has caused so much hurt that he can’t be a mouthpiece for God. I am not in either camp. I both believe he is called of God and I have been hurt by him. </p><p>I realize that my writing about a Church leader causing hurt could bring up old pains or cause new ones. I know that my continued participation in the church causes people pain, too. And I’m truly sorry for any pain my actions cause. <br /><br />I also know that by expressing that an Church leader has hurt me that some will think I’m a danger to the Church. If that is true for you, you might consider taking some time to immerse yourself in my work and then see how you feel about me.<br /><br />I don’t expect to change anyone’s mind about any public figures. I can’t do that in a short post. But I do want to say that really getting to know this man changed my mind. Spending time learning about his life and teachings did not erase the hurt and pain he caused me. It didn’t change the way his words have been unfairly weaponized against me. And it didn’t undo the years that I wished I could die. But it did lead me to love him. </p><p></p><p>I heard this quote a while back and it super resonates with me: “There isn't a person you wouldn't love if you could read their whole story.” Whose story do you need to hear? </p>Benhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/04151204932376899998noreply@blogger.com57tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7565469030539917833.post-8322312474189159322023-07-12T15:42:00.062-07:002023-07-13T09:33:03.518-07:00Some Thoughts on Charlie and Ryan's Engagement<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiBPW9FF-mn1xJU_aNeTdaYgstjQ6XinvXrIDIqCFITnIRNYyQ2nWRtkTpqSUocz6D8IRQGG8RDI7zM7glr5X-Ukj3C1eQZwbZms4_tl2MWoS-vRFA52m0kbB_M-3jFA-cGQfjBQh3p_meWy0GkQXzsgbuJBjq23kIH8ZaAGzgB3n2iPQzAgwgHuVy-CypM/s1024/Engagement.jpeg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="683" data-original-width="1024" height="213" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiBPW9FF-mn1xJU_aNeTdaYgstjQ6XinvXrIDIqCFITnIRNYyQ2nWRtkTpqSUocz6D8IRQGG8RDI7zM7glr5X-Ukj3C1eQZwbZms4_tl2MWoS-vRFA52m0kbB_M-3jFA-cGQfjBQh3p_meWy0GkQXzsgbuJBjq23kIH8ZaAGzgB3n2iPQzAgwgHuVy-CypM/s320/Engagement.jpeg" width="320" /></a></div><p>In the weeks since Charlie and Ryan publicly announced their engagement, I’ve received a lot of messages about their decision to get married. “I’m so happy for them!” people have texted me. “I’m really disappointed,” others have said. And many more have reached out hoping I can help them understand: “I want to be happy for them,” they say, “but I don’t get how someone can say they love the Church and then go against it.”<b id="docs-internal-guid-fcf22c4a-7fff-0fdc-61d7-d1459f29d517" style="font-weight: normal;"><span style="background-color: transparent; color: black; font-family: Arial; font-size: 11pt; font-style: normal; font-variant: normal; font-weight: 400; text-decoration: none; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre;"> </span></b></p>I can see how Charlie and Ryan’s choice to get married has left some people feeling uncomfortable. They’re likable guys. They’re fun and cool and attractive. They’re the kind of people you want to be friends with — the kind you naturally root for. And they’re solidly good humans. So it can cause some dissonance if you aren’t sure whether you can root for them and be happy for them and support their choice to marry each other.<br /><br />But I’ve noticed a recurring theme in those who have expressed concern. Many people who have been unable to articulate why Charlie and Ryan are using their agency to enter into a same-sex marriage haven’t truly listened. Rather than seek to understand, they have allowed discomfort to lead them down the easier path of assumption, dismissal, or blame. <br /><br />Charlie has made his intentions and his heart so public and so clear, yet he is still being misunderstood and feared because people aren’t taking the time to listen. As his friend, it’s hard for me to watch. <br /><br />When Jesus was in agony in Gethsemane and on the cross, He not only paid for the sins of humanity, but He also experienced everything we’ve experienced. He knows why I do what I do. And He knows Charlie and precisely why he is choosing to marry Ryan. Later, when He visited the Nephites as the resurrected Savior, He invited each of the 2,500 people there to feel the scars on His body. They did this one by one. I don’t know how long that took, but it surely took a while. It’s clear to me that taking time to understand others is a characteristic of Jesus Christ. You don’t have to agree with Charlie and Ryan's decision or even like it, but you do need to understand it. That’s what Christ does. <br /><br />Charlie doesn’t owe us any explanations about his personal life, and yet he has been so publicly open and vulnerable. Perhaps the best way for you to understand his heart is to spend more time with him. You can watch the <a href="https://www.instagram.com/reel/CtKxmEONOcU/?igshid=Y2IzZGU1MTFhOQ%3D%3D">videos</a> he recently shared on his social media pages, or read his<a href="https://www.blogger.com/#"> op-ed in the Deseret News</a>, or learn from his<a href="https://mrcharliebird.com/"> amazing books</a>, or listen to him on more than 100 hours of “Questions from the Closet.” (Here are three episodes I’d recommend: <a href="https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=SGtfsurCbig&t=100s">Why Do You Stay in the Church?</a> <a href="https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=XnhxUJRZEuQ&t=190s">How Can I Find Joy in the Temple as an LGBTQ Individual?</a> <a href="https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=Xbc_gj7tKQE&t=2973s">What Happens When You Fall in Love?</a>)<br /><br />It’s amazing how fear and confusion dissipate when we seek to know each other’s hearts. I feel so much gratitude when I think about Charlie. I have witnessed miracles with him and I fully anticipate to experience many more. <br /><br />A few years ago my close friend Maria expressed concern when her son got engaged to his boyfriend. The choice wasn’t in line with what she had taught him and she felt disappointed. As she was deciding whether or not to attend the wedding, she sought counsel from her bishop. He responded, “There is nothing wrong with supporting your son and celebrating with him. I hope you will attend.” <br /><br />“So did you go to the wedding?” I asked after she told me the story. She looked at me like I’d just asked her the dumbest question in the world and exclaimed, “Of course! And I’m so glad I did.” <br /><br />She smiled an enormous smile and added, “And I danced!” <br /><br /><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjU25Kkgh4KNgNs4QEXpEJSLfxEEPrk0VIDY4Qv4RUR1SWMSVMXt1ywCh8UgYl6nZ0H72CBAk-2XpBFRC1XRDAvq6HL_dUhwbO8GcrnWuJ1lCAQG9kpk3QlRQEH-2sJtrpej2h6IrnLLxssKeKgV4AVPvrjXnEk-r_NN7fD8S7Dcqm7PPXiOQH8HM6LLoIR/s1697/Splash%20mountain.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; float: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1697" data-original-width="1170" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjU25Kkgh4KNgNs4QEXpEJSLfxEEPrk0VIDY4Qv4RUR1SWMSVMXt1ywCh8UgYl6nZ0H72CBAk-2XpBFRC1XRDAvq6HL_dUhwbO8GcrnWuJ1lCAQG9kpk3QlRQEH-2sJtrpej2h6IrnLLxssKeKgV4AVPvrjXnEk-r_NN7fD8S7Dcqm7PPXiOQH8HM6LLoIR/s320/Splash%20mountain.jpg" width="221" /></a></div>The more I’ve gotten to know Charlie and Ryan — how much they love each other, how much they love the Gospel of Jesus Christ, and how hard they are working to live the best life they can given their incredibly difficult circumstances— the more I feel confident in them and their decisions. I can honor, respect, and support them, even if my choices look different. <br /><br />I’ve already rented a tuxedo for Charlie’s wedding. When the big day rolls around, I will offer my help, hug friends in attendance, and take a front row seat for their marriage ceremony. Even though they’re making a decision that goes against Church teachings — one that might even impact the way people view me and my work — I won’t feel conflicted about my support. I will be genuinely happy for my friends. Because I know who they are. And I know how they got here. And I have taken the time to know their hearts.<br /><br />So rather than worry about if I’m allowed to be supportive, I will cheer and I will clap and I will hug them and I will cry. I will express the true emotions that will come from my heart. And later at their reception, even though I don't have the best moves, like my friend Maria, I will smile an enormous smile, and I will dance. <br /><br />________________________________<br /><br /><br />P.S. A number of friends have reached out to ask how I'm doing since Charlie and Ryan announced their engagement. I really appreciate your kindness and concern. I'm doing just fine and there is no need to worry about me. I'm not sad or depressed or jealous or feeling abandoned or anything like that. I've had many close friends get married over the years and I often used to feel a longing for a partner when I'd attend their weddings. But I haven't felt that way for years. I think that feeling has subsided as I've been more intentional about my own choices and have grown more confident in them. I also feel that if I ever did choose to pursue marriage I would be successful in the pursuit (please don't correct me if I'm wrong in that assumption) so I don't feel trapped in a single life. I have intentionally chosen a life path that I continue to choose independent of what my friends do. Charlie and I plan to continue working together and we both have a lot of respect for where we each are at. We are both trying our best to make the choices that work for us, regardless of what other people are doing. It’s pretty rad that God gives us agency to live our own lives!<br /><br /><p><b id="docs-internal-guid-fcf22c4a-7fff-0fdc-61d7-d1459f29d517" style="font-weight: normal;"><span style="background-color: transparent; color: black; font-family: Arial; font-size: 11pt; font-style: normal; font-variant: normal; font-weight: 400; text-decoration: none; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre;"> </span></b></p><br />Benhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/04151204932376899998noreply@blogger.com122tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7565469030539917833.post-73792657717584584082023-05-17T14:50:00.000-07:002023-05-17T14:50:08.870-07:00Why We Gather<p><span style="font-family: arial;"></span></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><span style="font-family: arial;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEixdkhxIILy_zgzYXPsW094VC0oojBSFZOZXNuFEzhwsccQk0mA5qtYW-FA4pd5dDPgAq_8WHB2xWdy2yc5P50XE_ux57_IvZXfL-6Acdt5A8H8GxQwpm9vvAs1MrRbTIMrQ5a_T3LGXL7Yd-Tta1RyR9nin0X-1GNWFxBOAKuV0c4VehliDARhxKNQOQ/s2048/Joshua%20Tree.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="2048" data-original-width="1536" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEixdkhxIILy_zgzYXPsW094VC0oojBSFZOZXNuFEzhwsccQk0mA5qtYW-FA4pd5dDPgAq_8WHB2xWdy2yc5P50XE_ux57_IvZXfL-6Acdt5A8H8GxQwpm9vvAs1MrRbTIMrQ5a_T3LGXL7Yd-Tta1RyR9nin0X-1GNWFxBOAKuV0c4VehliDARhxKNQOQ/s320/Joshua%20Tree.jpg" width="240" /></a></span></div><p></p><p><span style="font-family: arial;">Normally my path never would have crossed with Charlie’s. We ran in different circles, had a ten year age gap, and had no overlapping activities. Had we not both stepped in LGBTQ Latter-day Saint spaces, I don’t see how we ever would have become friends. </span><br /></p><p><span style="font-family: arial;">We met in September 2017 when I was 33 and he was 23. I had just moved back to Provo to start a Master’s in Social Work at BYU and Charlie was a senior at BYU. That month I spent a Saturday at a conference for LGBTQ Latter-day Saints in downtown Provo. Shortly after I arrived someone introduced me to Charlie. At this point, he had come out to some people close to him, but he wasn’t even out to all of his family yet. He looked scared and uncertain (which I later learned are uncommon emotions for him). Trying to be friendly and helpful, I sat down with him to learn more about him. I invited him to meet up for lunch some time so we could keep chatting. Charlie, however, freaked out thinking I was hitting on him (please, he should be so lucky). We didn’t exchange numbers and we didn’t go to lunch. <br /><br />Two months later in November 2017 I was sitting in a conference room in the BYU administration building when in walked Charlie Bird. We had both been invited to participate on a working group composed of a number of campus administrators and nine LGBTQ students. This group of administrators and students met weekly for months. Since Charlie took the bus to school, I often offered to give him a ride home (still not hitting on him). Our first meeting didn’t lead to an immediate friendship, but these later interactions did. <br /><br />Initially it felt more like a mentor-mentee relationship than a friendship. In my mind, I was the old, wise gay man helping young Charlie find his way. The committee planned the first campus wide LGBTQ student panel and I was asked to be on the panel. Charlie reluctantly agreed to say the closing prayer at the event. He wrote about this event in his book <i>Without the Mask</i>. He said, “I listened to Ben give powerful answers and wished that one day I could be that brave” (p. 136). I cried the first time I read that line thinking of 24 year old Charlie yearning to be brave and then in the years that followed witnessing him be one of the bravest people I know. At the end of the event the moderator invited anyone in the room who identified as LGBTQ to stand and be recognized. I glanced over at Charlie wondering if he would feel comfortable standing and then watched him timidly stand. He wanted to be brave, and he was. <br /><br />Had it not been for gatherings meant for LGBTQ Latter-day Saints, Charlie and I never would have become friends. The intersection of the LGBTQ world and the Latter-day Saint world brought us together. <br /><br />Now fast forwarding to the present, I had a really bad day last week. Something small happened related to being a gay Latter-day Saint that put me in a serious funk for a few hours. This particular event wasn’t that bad, but it brought up a lot of latent feelings of rejection, pain, and powerlessness. I called my dad and talked to a few friends about how I was feeling, but there was a lot of backstory and I had to explain quite a bit for the situation to make any sense. While I was grateful for these listening ears, I didn't feel any better. So I prayed, I listened to music, and I went on a walk all trying to clear my head, but I just couldn’t get out of the fog I was in. Then I called Charlie. <br /><br />I told Charlie over the phone what had happened. I didn’t have to explain why I was feeling the way I was because he understood instantly. He’d felt this way, too. He asked if I wanted to go on a walk and I did, so he came right over. After talking for 15 minutes I felt like myself again. 15 minutes with a friend who understood me was more effective than hours of going it alone. <table cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="float: right;"><tbody><tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjgTAZTV3nD3zMnf27f4RTO7x0-gi-kQw9RMC3A2-tsmfZDJ8fJA_64NrMI9Og_Lq4QL8Wlp5JOi1TWvB-Vl9ZiBXZzVIVYhzrEpbQL4GeV8gV-ovNuKVcWgLYXnrKmGk-j3vg83PTRUbd7ipaKdqxsUZNPODmlnPpwWUuPdc540VvuGKwpNcJ7HZL_3w/s4032/beach%20bench.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" data-original-height="4032" data-original-width="3024" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjgTAZTV3nD3zMnf27f4RTO7x0-gi-kQw9RMC3A2-tsmfZDJ8fJA_64NrMI9Og_Lq4QL8Wlp5JOi1TWvB-Vl9ZiBXZzVIVYhzrEpbQL4GeV8gV-ovNuKVcWgLYXnrKmGk-j3vg83PTRUbd7ipaKdqxsUZNPODmlnPpwWUuPdc540VvuGKwpNcJ7HZL_3w/s320/beach%20bench.jpg" width="240" /></a></td></tr><tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Still not hitting on him<br /></td></tr></tbody></table> That night as I was saying my evening prayer, I thanked God for my friendship with Charlie. Then other names and faces came to mind that I needed to be thankful for: “Heavenly Father, thank you for all the people who planned the conference we met at. And thank you for the administrators that formed the committee we served on. Thank you for the spaces they created where I could form lasting friendships.” <br /><br />I mention Charlie here, but I could tell dozens of stories of friends I’ve met at gatherings for LGBTQ Latter-day Saints and those who love them. Friends I’ve needed and will continue to need. And there are many friends I have yet to meet at such gatherings. <br /><br />I need diversity in my life. I need people of different ages, identities, and backgrounds. And yet, there are times when I need to be with people who are like me. People who get what I’m going through. People that I don’t have to explain myself to. Gathering with LGBTQ Latter-day Saints has made this possible for me. <br /><br />As you probably already know, I’m helping plan a conference this September 15th and 16th called Gather (more info <a href="https://gather-conference.com/">here</a>). The event is being put on by a coalition of people that exist in this LGBTQ Latter-day Saint space. It will be Christ centered and Church positive, but will also be expansive and include people on a variety of paths. There will be allies who want to support and uplift. There will be parents of family members of LGBTQ kiddos. There will be church leaders coming to understand how to minister to the LGBTQ folks in their congregations. There will be people in same-sex relationships and mixed-orientation marriages and single people like me. There will be art and amazing speakers and phenomenal music (including a new song written by Janice Kapp Perry specifically for Gather that made me cry when I read the lyrics). And maybe there will be people like you there. <br /><br />If Gather doesn't feel like the right fit for you, there are many organizations and groups working to connect people. I hope you can find your people. <br /><br />A lot of planning is going into each aspect of the conference. But what I’ve learned is that the real magic will happen when someone sits next to a stranger, or meets someone in a hallway, or introduces someone to a friend. We gather for the lasting connections that will be made that can never be planned. <br /><br />I don’t know if you’ll make lifelong connections if you come to the Gather conference. I don’t know if you’ll even have a good time. But I know that at events like this I have had a blast and have met some of my dearest friends. Maybe you’ll meet someone who years down the road will be the support you need on a bad day. <br /><br />That’s what has happened for me.</span></p><p><span style="font-family: arial;"></span></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><span style="font-family: arial;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgu-PEU89y3HlCH-M_G9jGvhMwisIeX71t2-X_sFxd8_Bt6RWolk047ryQyKxyz_4y6nFMwXJbtH64G0ddEiXI74St0aZfzmJBfIijQVKr-9ngOaE92NAiaD87zR3VDhFhLDgeeNRfieHvj3zItomWdIDLX1nWj7c8sKGPEDlKxG1td94x2rTRVn4FLwQ/s648/Gather%20logo.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="345" data-original-width="648" height="170" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgu-PEU89y3HlCH-M_G9jGvhMwisIeX71t2-X_sFxd8_Bt6RWolk047ryQyKxyz_4y6nFMwXJbtH64G0ddEiXI74St0aZfzmJBfIijQVKr-9ngOaE92NAiaD87zR3VDhFhLDgeeNRfieHvj3zItomWdIDLX1nWj7c8sKGPEDlKxG1td94x2rTRVn4FLwQ/s320/Gather%20logo.jpg" width="320" /></a></span></div><span style="font-family: arial;"><br /> </span><br class="Apple-interchange-newline" /><p></p>Benhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/04151204932376899998noreply@blogger.com9tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7565469030539917833.post-46863924786231614622023-01-10T08:58:00.002-08:002023-01-10T09:47:04.295-08:00Feared, Pitied, and Honored
<p align="center" class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: 0in; text-align: center;"><b style="mso-bidi-font-weight: normal;"><span style="color: black; font-family: "Times New Roman",serif; font-size: 16pt; line-height: 200%; mso-bidi-font-size: 12.0pt; mso-fareast-font-family: "Times New Roman";"></span></b></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><b style="mso-bidi-font-weight: normal;"><span style="color: black; font-family: "Times New Roman",serif; font-size: 16pt; line-height: 200%; mso-bidi-font-size: 12.0pt; mso-fareast-font-family: "Times New Roman";"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhPlgHvHWJn1V1jt4W6IbuFxDOpW4mCqzX8F-eivWUd8299KsyGs8jJkps2G1I1J-cF0fr61hwTicyKe3A8M9QVExFcVqIXPdmcHB4DND2uWTWs9IquUYb8ufOy9H622KNSJQ5dI5S5U1nMB0u89feyyLWIfPds55bkU1F5I0fXNcSLxXQRKhNVj9782g/s404/TED%20picture.jpg" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="404" data-original-width="285" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhPlgHvHWJn1V1jt4W6IbuFxDOpW4mCqzX8F-eivWUd8299KsyGs8jJkps2G1I1J-cF0fr61hwTicyKe3A8M9QVExFcVqIXPdmcHB4DND2uWTWs9IquUYb8ufOy9H622KNSJQ5dI5S5U1nMB0u89feyyLWIfPds55bkU1F5I0fXNcSLxXQRKhNVj9782g/s320/TED%20picture.jpg" width="226" /></a></span></b></div><p></p><div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: 0in; text-align: left;"><span style="font-size: small;"><i><span style="color: black; font-family: "Times New Roman",serif; line-height: 200%; mso-bidi-font-size: 12.0pt; mso-fareast-font-family: "Times New Roman";">Note: In May 2021 I was asked to speak to a Jewish audience about what it has been like for me to be a gay Latter-day Saint. The following essay is what I shared with them. You can listen to me read it <a href="https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=0lUcOkcnR2E&t=70s">here</a>. <b><br /></b></span></i></span></div><p align="center" class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: 0in; text-align: center;"><b style="mso-bidi-font-weight: normal;"><span style="color: black; font-family: "Times New Roman",serif; font-size: 16pt; line-height: 200%; mso-bidi-font-size: 12.0pt; mso-fareast-font-family: "Times New Roman";">Feared,
Pitied, and Honored</span></b></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: 0in; text-indent: 0.5in;"><span style="color: black; font-family: "Times New Roman",serif; font-size: 12pt; line-height: 200%; mso-fareast-font-family: "Times New Roman";">After 11 hours of
driving I caught my first glimpse of a Latter-day Saint temple. I’d left
Tucson, AZ early in the morning anxious to get to Utah. Now that I was entering
the heart of Latter-day Saintism I passed temple after temple as I cruised down
I-15. Payson, Provo, Mount Timpanogos, Draper, Oquirrh Mountain, Jordan River,
Salt Lake, Bountiful. These sacred buildings had always stirred up feelings of
excitement in me. They were beautiful and holy and I’d been participating in
temple ordinances since I was 12. And then at the age of 30, after spending
many hundreds of hours worshipping inside of Latter-day Saint temples, I passed
them on the freeway and felt immense sadness. I knew the rules. I knew that
only members of the Church in good standing could enter a temple. And I was
about to make a choice that would keep me out of the temple forever. I wondered
if I was making the right choice, but I felt I had no other choice. I was going
to violate Church teachings and enter a same-sex relationship. </span><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman",serif; font-size: 12pt; line-height: 200%; mso-fareast-font-family: "Times New Roman";"></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: 0in; text-indent: 0.5in;"><span style="color: black; font-family: "Times New Roman",serif; font-size: 12pt; line-height: 200%; mso-fareast-font-family: "Times New Roman";">I didn’t initially
choose to be a Latter-day Saint, but I loved the religion that was chosen for
me by my parents. I grew up in the Seattle area far removed from the Book of
Mormon belt. My parents joined The Church of Jesus Christ of Latter-day Saints
a year after they got married, twelve years before I was born. My Latter-day
Saint roots don’t run any deeper than my parents, but you’d be hard pressed to
find two people with stronger faith than them. When I turned eight I reached
the age of accountability and I was asked if I wanted to be baptized. With
little knowledge of the world or theology, I chose to be baptized because I
believed it was the right thing to do. All through my childhood and adolescence
I was the kind of kid any Latter-day Saint parent would want. I joyfully
attended church and did my best to follow its teachings. </span><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman",serif; font-size: 12pt; line-height: 200%; mso-fareast-font-family: "Times New Roman";"></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: 0in; text-indent: 0.5in;"><span style="color: black; font-family: "Times New Roman",serif; font-size: 12pt; line-height: 200%; mso-fareast-font-family: "Times New Roman";">I didn’t choose to be
gay either. When I was 11 I started noticing that I was attracted to other
guys. Back then I wouldn’t have been able to put into words what I was
experiencing. I recall being drawn to male characters in family friendly shows:
Chris Kratt from <i>Kratts’ Creatures, </i>Dean Cain from <i>Lois and Clark</i>,
and Zack Morris from <i>Saved by the Bell</i>, to name a few. I was a scrawny
kid and not someone who could be defined as “conventionally attractive.” So
when I saw male peers that were athletic and conventionally attractive I told
myself that I wasn’t attracted to them, I just wished I looked like them. I
lived in a protective denial that shielded me from a reality I was not ready to
face. </span><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman",serif; font-size: 12pt; line-height: 200%; mso-fareast-font-family: "Times New Roman";"></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: 0in; text-indent: 0.5in;"><span style="color: black; font-family: "Times New Roman",serif; font-size: 12pt; line-height: 200%; mso-fareast-font-family: "Times New Roman";">As a young man at church
I was handed a pamphlet called “To Young Men Only.” It was a print out of a
talk given by Apostle Boyd K. Packer in 1976. This pamphlet was printed for 40
years and was handed to me in the late 90s. In the pamphlet, Elder Packer explained
that homosexual feelings can arise “in a moment of idle foolishness, when boys
are just playing around.” He continued, “Such practices, however tempting, are
perversion…No one is locked into that kind of life… No one is predestined to a
perverted use of these powers” (Petrey, 2020, p. 88). The teaching was clear.
Homosexuality is a perversion, it is my fault that I am feeling these perverted
feelings, and it is my duty to fix them. </span><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman",serif; font-size: 12pt; line-height: 200%; mso-fareast-font-family: "Times New Roman";"></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: 0in; text-indent: 0.5in;"><span style="color: black; font-family: "Times New Roman",serif; font-size: 12pt; line-height: 200%; mso-fareast-font-family: "Times New Roman";">Just like any good
Latter-day Saint kid I looked forward to the time when I would serve a mission.
Many LGBTQ Latter-day Saints approach their missions making a deal with God,
asking for Him to “fix” them for serving missions. I made no such deal with
God. I didn’t think I had to. I thought that heterosexuality would just be a
natural outgrowth of my service. After two years serving as a missionary in
Mexico I returned home at the age of 21. It hadn’t worked. My same-sex
attraction, this unspeakable perversion, remained. Now that my mission was over
I couldn’t live in denial any longer. I was gay and it was time to truly show
God how faithful I could be so He would reward me with healing. </span><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman",serif; font-size: 12pt; line-height: 200%; mso-fareast-font-family: "Times New Roman";"></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: 0in; text-indent: 0.5in;"><span style="color: black; font-family: "Times New Roman",serif; font-size: 12pt; line-height: 200%; mso-fareast-font-family: "Times New Roman";">Not long after returning
from my mission I started school at Brigham Young University in Provo, Utah.
The first year after my mission was an incredibly happy time filled with
friends, fun, and hope for a bright future. In earlier decades, missionaries
heading home were told to get married within a year. This awful advice had
ceased by the time I returned home, but the cultural expectation to get married
quickly hadn’t. When I hit the two-year mark, I started to panic. The praying
to be straight hadn’t worked. The fasting to be straight hadn’t worked. The
countless dates with women hadn’t worked. The internal self-shaming every time
I saw an attractive man hadn’t worked. What if my orientation wasn’t going to
change? I read the words of Church leaders who said that same-sex attraction
was a trial, affliction, and temptation of mortality that wouldn’t exist in the
next life. I started to wish that I could die. It seemed preferable to be dead
and straight instead of alive and gay. </span><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman",serif; font-size: 12pt; line-height: 200%; mso-fareast-font-family: "Times New Roman";"></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: 0in; text-indent: 0.5in;"><span style="color: black; font-family: "Times New Roman",serif; font-size: 12pt; line-height: 200%; mso-fareast-font-family: "Times New Roman";">Around this time, I came
across a song that quoted words from the prophet Isaiah. I clung to those words
and listened to that song every day for months. “For a small moment have I
forsaken thee; but with great mercies will I gather thee. In a little wrath I
hid my face from thee for a moment; but with everlasting kindness will I have
mercy on thee, saith the Lord thy Redeemer… For the mountains shall depart, and
the hills removed; but my kindness shall not depart from thee…” (Isaiah
54:7-8,10). In these often-dark moments, I believed God was there and that His
mercy and everlasting kindness would arrive. I imagined this unmovable divine
kindness manifesting itself as a change in my orientation. Instead it was
manifest in friendship. </span><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman",serif; font-size: 12pt; line-height: 200%; mso-fareast-font-family: "Times New Roman";"></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: 0in; text-indent: 0.5in;"><span style="color: black; font-family: "Times New Roman",serif; font-size: 12pt; line-height: 200%; mso-fareast-font-family: "Times New Roman";">At the age of 23 I found
myself walking through a park near BYU with two of my best friends. I’d been
wanting to share my struggle with same-sex attraction for months, but had
always chickened out. Suddenly I knew that this was the moment. I asked them if
we could sit on the grass because I wanted to tell them something. I hesitated,
not sure that I could get the words out. I started to get so nervous that I
thought I might actually throw up. As I started to plan my retreat, a sweet
Spirit whispered to me that my Heavenly Father had orchestrated this moment for
me. So I gathered my courage and said for the very first time, “For as long as
I can remember, I’ve been more attracted to men than women.” They both
responded with love and kindness and asked some good questions. I turned to my
friend Craig who was my best friend and roommate and said, “I understand if you
don’t want to be my roommate anymore.” He looked surprised and said, “Why
wouldn’t I want to be your roommate? You’re the same person you’ve always
been.” </span><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman",serif; font-size: 12pt; line-height: 200%; mso-fareast-font-family: "Times New Roman";"></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: 0in; text-indent: 0.5in;"><span style="color: black; font-family: "Times New Roman",serif; font-size: 12pt; line-height: 200%; mso-fareast-font-family: "Times New Roman";">His response was the
beginning of my healing. If Craig still loved me and saw me the same, maybe I
could, too. As I came out to my family and friends over the next few years the
shame and internalized homophobia I’d been feeling slowly started to diminish.
Each moment of vulnerability shared and then received chipped away at my shame
and I learned to see myself not as a broken heterosexual, but as a gay man who
was whole the way he was. </span><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman",serif; font-size: 12pt; line-height: 200%; mso-fareast-font-family: "Times New Roman";"></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: 0in; text-indent: 0.5in;"><span style="color: black; font-family: "Times New Roman",serif; font-size: 12pt; line-height: 200%; mso-fareast-font-family: "Times New Roman";">When I was 25 I first
attempted to pen my gay Latter-day Saint story. I had only written a few pages
when I scrapped the project which I had titled <i>Tried as Abraham. </i>At the
time, I viewed my orientation as an Abrahamic test. God was asking me to give
up the thing I wanted the most in life--a committed partnership with someone I
loved--to show Him how faithful I could be. And yet, Abraham was willing to
sacrifice Isaac, but then he got to keep Isaac. Where was my ram in the
thicket? Where was my deliverance? Was this all sacrifice and no blessings? On
the first page of my soon to be discarded book, I explained that I love to eat
Cinnabons, but all I was offered in life was carrots. It felt like life would
always be bland, disappointing, and leaving me wanting more. </span><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman",serif; font-size: 12pt; line-height: 200%; mso-fareast-font-family: "Times New Roman";"></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: 0in; text-indent: 0.5in;"><span style="color: black; font-family: "Times New Roman",serif; font-size: 12pt; line-height: 200%; mso-fareast-font-family: "Times New Roman";">At the age of 29 I fell
in love with a man. I wasn’t dating men or looking for love, Jordan just showed
up in my life. At the time he lived in Utah and I lived in Arizona. Initially
we started talking as friends, but quickly fell for each other. My journal is
riddled with entries about how happy he made me. For years I had tried to date
women, but only because I was expected to. I had never wanted to participate in
any form of physical affection with those women, but I forced myself to because
I was supposed to. Then suddenly dating and courtship made sense. I wanted to
kiss him and hold his hand and spend eternity with him. But I wasn’t allowed to
want those things. I recall saying the words “I love you” and them not feeling
strong enough. Human love could run so much deeper than I had imagined. </span><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman",serif; font-size: 12pt; line-height: 200%; mso-fareast-font-family: "Times New Roman";"></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: 0in; text-indent: 0.5in;"><span style="color: black; font-family: "Times New Roman",serif; font-size: 12pt; line-height: 200%; mso-fareast-font-family: "Times New Roman";">Jordan regularly asked
if he could be my boyfriend and I repeatedly told him no. “I just can’t have a
boyfriend,” I explained, “but we can be really super awesome best friends.” I
didn’t realize this at the time, but Jordan was on his way out of the Church
and he was trying to bring me with him. Meanwhile, I was trying to stay in the
Church and keep him in with me so we could be best friends forever. Our
divergent goals could not coexist and the tension finally pulled us apart.
Jordan said that if we couldn’t be in a real relationship then our friendship
needed to end. I chose the Church over him and things between us ended.</span><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman",serif; font-size: 12pt; line-height: 200%; mso-fareast-font-family: "Times New Roman";"></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: 0in; text-indent: 0.5in;"><span style="color: black; font-family: "Times New Roman",serif; font-size: 12pt; line-height: 200%; mso-fareast-font-family: "Times New Roman";">The loneliness and
emptiness set in immediately. I missed him terribly. I felt a literal hole
inside of me with him gone. My entire life I had been taught about Lehi’s Dream
in the Book of Mormon. Lehi, an ancient prophet from Jerusalem, had a dream
that included an iron rod that led to the Tree of Life. The iron rod
represented the word of God that would guide us safely and securely to eternal
life if we would just hold onto it. In all the artistic interpretations of this
image, the iron rod was always depicted as a railing at waist height, easy to
grab onto. The artists got it wrong. For me, it felt like the iron rod was ten
feet in the air, and I was dangling from it trying to hold on. But my arms
ached, my hands hurt, and as much as I wanted to continue holding on, I just
couldn’t any more. It was too painful to maintain the grip. So out of
necessity, I decided to let go. </span><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman",serif; font-size: 12pt; line-height: 200%; mso-fareast-font-family: "Times New Roman";"></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: 0in; text-indent: 0.5in;"><span style="color: black; font-family: "Times New Roman",serif; font-size: 12pt; line-height: 200%; mso-fareast-font-family: "Times New Roman";">I texted Jordan and told
him I was coming for a visit. When I arrived at his house north of Salt Lake I
told him how much I had missed him and how I didn’t want to live without him. I
told him that I was ready to choose him over the Church. I was willing to
sacrifice my good standing as a Latter-day Saint to have a life with him. After
I spilled my guts to him and told him I had changed my mind, Jordan said, “Ben,
I know you better than that. You would choose the Church over me in the future.
This isn’t going to work out.” I am often praised for being such a faithful
member of the Church, but the truth is that I was one Jordan’s choice from
stepping away. Jordan knew me well enough to know that I was making a choice
based on fear, and so he made the choice he knew I would make in the
future. </span><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman",serif; font-size: 12pt; line-height: 200%; mso-fareast-font-family: "Times New Roman";"></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: 0in; text-indent: 0.5in;"><span style="color: black; font-family: "Times New Roman",serif; font-size: 12pt; line-height: 200%; mso-fareast-font-family: "Times New Roman";">I was crushed. I didn’t
know what to do. I sat at Jordan’s house by myself in a daze. Feeling desperate
and not knowing what else to do, I changed into my church clothes and drove to
the Bountiful Utah Temple. On the drive I prayed out loud, “Heavenly Father,
I’m trying so hard to be good. I just want to do the right thing, but my life
is falling apart. Can’t you just throw me a bone? Where are you?” As I sat in
the temple waiting for the worship service to start, I grabbed a copy of the
Doctrine and Covenants which contains modern day revelations for The Church of
Jesus Christ of Latter-day Saints. I randomly opened up to a section penned by
Joseph Smith dictating the words of the Lord to him. “Behold, I have seen your
sacrifices, and will forgive all your sins; I have seen your sacrifices in
obedience to that which I have told you. Go, therefore, and I make a way for
your escape, as I accepted the offering of Abraham of his son Isaac” (D&C
132:50). It was as if God Himself were telling me that He had seen my
willingness to sacrifice to be obedient to Him, and now He had prepared an
escape from the impossible task required of me. </span><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman",serif; font-size: 12pt; line-height: 200%; mso-fareast-font-family: "Times New Roman";"></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: 0in; text-indent: 0.5in;"><span style="color: black; font-family: "Times New Roman",serif; font-size: 12pt; line-height: 200%; mso-fareast-font-family: "Times New Roman";">The escape God had
planned for me surely was leaving The Church of Jesus Christ of Latter-day
Saints, I thought. It was so obvious. God was saying I’d done enough and now it
was okay for me to leave. As I sat in the temple pondering this conclusion, I
felt a dark heaviness rest on me. Then an image of my parents came to my mind.
As I thought of them I felt filled with light. But I didn’t want to go home, I
wanted to stay with Jordan. As I pondered remaining in Utah with Jordan the
dark heaviness returned. Then I’d think of my parents and the light would
return. So even though I didn’t want to, I made the decision to leave Utah five
days earlier than planned, and immediately go home to see my parents. When I
got back to Jordan’s house I told him that I would be leaving the next morning.
And then I left. </span><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman",serif; font-size: 12pt; line-height: 200%; mso-fareast-font-family: "Times New Roman";"></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: 0in; text-indent: 0.5in;"><span style="color: black; font-family: "Times New Roman",serif; font-size: 12pt; line-height: 200%; mso-fareast-font-family: "Times New Roman";">I just wanted to do the
right thing. I just wanted to ascertain God’s will for me and then do it. I’d
always been a good kid and that’s all I ever wanted to be--just good. As I
drove the 13 hours to my parents’ house in Seattle I knew that I couldn’t live
the way I had any more. Something needed to change. So when I got home, 30 year
old me spewed years of unsaid things onto my parents. I first came out to them
when I was 23. They were loving and kind, but they didn’t get it. My mom asked
if I thought it was a phase and I said that I hoped it was. My dad said, “Well,
you’re probably better off being single because being married is hard.” Over
the next seven years they tried to talk about my same-sex attraction with me, but
I didn’t want to. They opened up the door for conversation, but I wasn’t
ready. </span><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman",serif; font-size: 12pt; line-height: 200%; mso-fareast-font-family: "Times New Roman";"></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: 0in; text-indent: 0.5in;"><span style="color: black; font-family: "Times New Roman",serif; font-size: 12pt; line-height: 200%; mso-fareast-font-family: "Times New Roman";">Without telling me, but
dad spent years reading stories about gay Latter-day Saints. Even though we
weren’t talking about it, he spent many hours educating himself. He had slowly
learned on his own the struggles we faced and the challenges we confronted. So
when I was ready to talk, he was more than ready. My mom had not done this
preparation. She was still hoping that I could live a “normal” life. But when
she heard me talk about Jordan and she could see how much I loved him, a switch
flipped in her heart. She said, “It just makes so much sense that you and
Jordan should be able to be together. I don’t get why you shouldn’t be able to
marry him.” She continued, “Ben, we’re not just on your side, we’re with you
100%. If you need to leave the Church and marry a man, you and he will always
be part of our family.” </span><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman",serif; font-size: 12pt; line-height: 200%; mso-fareast-font-family: "Times New Roman";"></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: 0in; text-indent: 0.5in;"><span style="color: black; font-family: "Times New Roman",serif; font-size: 12pt; line-height: 200%; mso-fareast-font-family: "Times New Roman";">I knew all of this
before my mom said it. I knew that no matter what I chose, I would always be
family. And yet, hearing her actually say those words was the gift I didn’t
know I needed. My parents were explicit that they would honor my agency and
that they would cheer me on no matter the path I took. David O. McKay, a
Latter-day Saint prophet from the mid-20th century taught, “Next to the
bestowal of life itself, the right to direct that life is God’s greatest gift
to man” </span><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman",serif; font-size: 12pt; line-height: 200%;">(McKay,
1962). </span><span style="color: black; font-family: "Times New Roman",serif; font-size: 12pt; line-height: 200%; mso-fareast-font-family: "Times New Roman";">My parents gave me life
and then gave me the freedom to live it. </span><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman",serif; font-size: 12pt; line-height: 200%; mso-fareast-font-family: "Times New Roman";"></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: 0in; text-indent: 0.5in;"><span style="color: black; font-family: "Times New Roman",serif; font-size: 12pt; line-height: 200%; mso-fareast-font-family: "Times New Roman";">Nothing had been wrong
with my relationship with Jordan. The only reason it ended was because of the
Church. I was furious, I was damaged, and I was ready to be out. I had been
trapped for long enough in a doctrine and cultural that had no room for a gay
person like me. And with my parents’ permission to leave, now was the time to
go. Even though I had just decided to say farewell to the Church, I wasn’t
going to say goodbye to God. So I committed to continuing to study His word. Days
after I decided to leave the Church, I opened up the scriptures and found
myself reading the story of Jesus in the Garden of Gethsemane. He prayed, “Oh
my Father, if it be possible, let this cup pass from me: nevertheless not as I
will, but as thou wilt” (Matt 26:39). I continued reading and noticed something
I hadn’t noticed before. Jesus said this same prayer three times. He really
didn’t want to die for the sins of the world, but more than that He wanted to
do His Father’s will. </span><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman",serif; font-size: 12pt; line-height: 200%; mso-fareast-font-family: "Times New Roman";"></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: 0in; text-indent: 0.5in;"><span style="color: black; font-family: "Times New Roman",serif; font-size: 12pt; line-height: 200%; mso-fareast-font-family: "Times New Roman";">I got down on my knees
and said one of the sincerest prayers I have ever uttered. I told God that I
didn’t want to be Mormon any more, that it was too hard, that I was tired and
worn out, terrified of being alone forever. And then I tried to be like Jesus
and said that I would do whatever He wanted me to do, no matter how painful. In
that moment of sincere pleading, I was ready to be hung on a cross if my Father
deemed that necessary. Then in a moment of peace and annoyance, the Spirit of
God whispered to me to move forward in the Church. Not to <i>stay</i> in the
Church, but to move forward, grow, and become a better me in the Church. It was
not the answer I wanted, but the divine provenance of the message was
undeniable. </span><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman",serif; font-size: 12pt; line-height: 200%; mso-fareast-font-family: "Times New Roman";"></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: 0in; text-indent: 0.5in;"><span style="color: black; font-family: "Times New Roman",serif; font-size: 12pt; line-height: 200%; mso-fareast-font-family: "Times New Roman";">During the three weeks I
spent at home I learned that the escape God had prepared for me wasn’t an
escape from the Church, but from shame and self-hatred. After lots of praying,
pondering, and many honest conversations with family, I headed back to Arizona
to resume normal life. As I passed the exit to Jordan’s house in Utah, I turned
my head, but kept driving. On the long drive I realized that I had been living
so much of my life based in fear. Fear of being alone. Fear of rejection. Fear
of being seen as gay. I made a solid commitment that I wasn’t going to let fear
control me anymore. I was going to make choices based on faith. And I was going
to actively seek out God’s will and then do it. </span><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman",serif; font-size: 12pt; line-height: 200%; mso-fareast-font-family: "Times New Roman";"></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: 0in; text-indent: 0.5in;"><span style="color: black; font-family: "Times New Roman",serif; font-size: 12pt; line-height: 200%; mso-fareast-font-family: "Times New Roman";">The first thing I felt
inspired to do was to be authentic. When I returned to Arizona I made a
commitment to come out to everyone in my life that I was close to. Over the
next few months I came out to about a hundred people. I came out in
conversations, emails, text messages, and I even wrote a few letters. Once that
was done, I felt this terrifying prompting to come out on my blog. I’d been
blogging for six years about funny things that happened in my life. It was a
humor space and not a place for serious content like a coming out post. And as
the only Ben Schilaty on the internet I was very Google-able and once I put
that information out there I couldn’t take it back. But the prompting was
clear. So in January of 2015 I came out the world. My personal reaction was
immediate. The anxiety of sharing something so personal so publicly was quickly
replaced with relief. I didn’t have to hide anymore. I could be myself and be
loved as an openly gay person. </span><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman",serif; font-size: 12pt; line-height: 200%; mso-fareast-font-family: "Times New Roman";"></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: 0in; text-indent: 0.5in;"><span style="color: black; font-family: "Times New Roman",serif; font-size: 12pt; line-height: 200%; mso-fareast-font-family: "Times New Roman";">A few weeks later I was
teaching a lesson at church. The familiar feeling I felt when I knew it was
time to come out bubbled up inside of me. So in the middle of the lesson I
pivoted and came out to everyone present. It was an empowering moment for me. After
the lesson a bisexual man who was attending for the first time approached me.
He told me that he thought Mormons were homophobic and wouldn’t accept a
bisexual person like him. He was glad to see that he had been mistaken. A few
months later, one of the leaders of the congregation told me what he had
witnessed that day. After the lesson he watched me sit down, releasing a deep
sigh. He said he saw an almost literal weight come off of me. He could tell that
what had happened was a deeply moving and freeing experience for me, exactly
the kind of thing that he felt should happen in his flock. </span><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman",serif; font-size: 12pt; line-height: 200%; mso-fareast-font-family: "Times New Roman";"></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: 0in; text-indent: 0.5in;"><span style="color: black; font-family: "Times New Roman",serif; font-size: 12pt; line-height: 200%; mso-fareast-font-family: "Times New Roman";">A year later I moved to
a new congregation. The bishop had heard of me and knew I was gay. I was asked
to speak in church a few weeks after I started attending. I asked him if I
could come out in my talk. He said, “I don’t see why that would be a problem.”
So I walked to the pulpit later that day and came out to a room of mostly
strangers. I didn’t come out just to come out, but to share how my experiences
as a gay man had taught me about divine love. After the meeting there was a
receiving line of about half a dozen strangers. One by one they welcomed me to
the congregation, often with tears, telling me how happy they were I was going
to be part of their church family. </span><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman",serif; font-size: 12pt; line-height: 200%; mso-fareast-font-family: "Times New Roman";"></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: 0in; text-indent: 0.5in;"><span style="color: black; font-family: "Times New Roman",serif; font-size: 12pt; line-height: 200%; mso-fareast-font-family: "Times New Roman";">As a people, Latter-day
Saints are focused on building Zion, a holy people dedicated to God and to each
other. A latter-day scripture translated by Joseph Smith teaches that Zion is a
people “of one heart and one mind” (Moses 7:18). For the first time in my life
I was attending church without hiding this important piece of me. And I was loved
and embraced. That Latter-day Saint congregation was Zion to me and I could
have stayed there and had such a happy life. </span><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman",serif; font-size: 12pt; line-height: 200%; mso-fareast-font-family: "Times New Roman";"></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: 0in; text-indent: 0.5in;"><span style="color: black; font-family: "Times New Roman",serif; font-size: 12pt; line-height: 200%; mso-fareast-font-family: "Times New Roman";">The second thing I felt
inspired to do was to reach out to other LGBTQ Latter-day Saints. As my coming
out blog post began to get shared around, I started to get emails from
strangers. I received a few dozen of these. They each basically said, “I’m also
a gay Latter-day Saint. No one knows, but I read your post and thought I should
reach out to you.” I responded to all of these emails, but there wasn’t much I
could do to help these gay men in far flung places. Then it occurred to me that
I was the only gay Latter-day Saint I knew about in Tucson, AZ, and
statistically there was no way that I was the only one. What I had wanted for
so long was to connect with people who understood what it was like to be, and I
thought other people might need that, too. So I started an LGBTQ group for
Latter-day Saints. </span><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman",serif; font-size: 12pt; line-height: 200%; mso-fareast-font-family: "Times New Roman";"></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: 0in; text-indent: 0.5in;"><span style="color: black; font-family: "Times New Roman",serif; font-size: 12pt; line-height: 200%; mso-fareast-font-family: "Times New Roman";">In the two years I ran
the group it grew to a few dozen members. I initially envisioned formalized
monthly meetings with a monthly social. The socials were immediately scrapped
as we all became the best of friends and there was no need to organize hang outs.
The group members clicked in a powerful, meaningful, organic way. LGBTQ
Latter-day Saints really do have a blast together. But more than that, there is
something special that happens when I am with someone who so deeply understands
these two integral parts of my identity, who understands things about me that
are often acutely misunderstood. It’s so easy to be me in these settings. </span><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman",serif; font-size: 12pt; line-height: 200%; mso-fareast-font-family: "Times New Roman";"></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: 0in; text-indent: 0.5in;"><span style="color: black; font-family: "Times New Roman",serif; font-size: 12pt; line-height: 200%; mso-fareast-font-family: "Times New Roman";">One night after a group
of us had been hanging out, a newcomer to the group lingered and chatted with
me and another friend. He opened up about how much he hated himself and felt
God hated him, too. Then, in a demonstration of faith in a God that he believed
had abandoned him, he asked the two of us to give him a blessing. Like ancient
prophets and apostles, two gay men laid their hands on the head of another gay
man and spoke words of comfort and healing as directed by the Holy Spirit. It
was a powerful moment in which three gay Latter-day Saints combined their faith
to channel the power of God to mend a shattered heart. Something special
happened in that room that I don’t think could have happened if we didn’t all
share the same faith and orientation. </span><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman",serif; font-size: 12pt; line-height: 200%; mso-fareast-font-family: "Times New Roman";"></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: 0in; text-indent: 0.5in;"><span style="color: black; font-family: "Times New Roman",serif; font-size: 12pt; line-height: 200%; mso-fareast-font-family: "Times New Roman";">The third thing I felt
guided to do was to educate others about the LGBTQ Latter-day Saint experience.
After my time in Tucson, I returned to BYU to pursue a master’s in social work.
I had just completed a PhD in one field and it was deeply embarrassing to
immediately get a master’s in another. And yet it felt like the right thing to
do. Two months into my degree my dream job opened up in the Spanish department
at BYU. Four professors encouraged me to apply and I knew I had a good shot of
getting the job. Around this time an administrator friend invited me to lunch.
I told her that I was considering applying for the position and dropping out of
the social work program. I told her that I already had two graduate degrees and
I was too old and too tired to get another one. She thought for a moment and
then said, “Ben, there are 100 people who could do that Spanish job and only
one person who can do what you’re going to do. And you need to be trained to do
it. You can’t quit your program.” I listened and I finished my MSW. I use the
skills I learned in that program every single day. I regularly ask myself,
“What can I do that no one else can do?” And then I strive to do that thing. </span><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman",serif; font-size: 12pt; line-height: 200%; mso-fareast-font-family: "Times New Roman";"></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: 0in; text-indent: 0.5in;"><span style="color: black; font-family: "Times New Roman",serif; font-size: 12pt; line-height: 200%; mso-fareast-font-family: "Times New Roman";">During my two years in
the MSW program at BYU I was asked to be part of an LGBTQ working group with a
number of BYU administrators. As part of this work I helped plan the first
campus wide LGBTQ student forum. The event included four panelists, an L, a G,
a B, and a T. I was lucky enough to be the G. The auditorium was filled to overflowing
with students sitting on the floor and filling up overflow rooms. Audience
members submitted questions and for 90 minutes we shared our stories with our
peers at BYU. When the event was over, the moderator asked the audience to thank
us for being so brave. The audience burst into a standing ovation and I started
to cry. Never in a million years did I think that I’d be able to openly share
my story at BYU and then be applauded for it. After mingling with people after the
event, I found a room and sat by myself. “Was that real?” I asked myself. “Did
that really just happen?” </span><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman",serif; font-size: 12pt; line-height: 200%; mso-fareast-font-family: "Times New Roman";"></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: 0in; text-indent: 0.5in;"><span style="color: black; font-family: "Times New Roman",serif; font-size: 12pt; line-height: 200%; mso-fareast-font-family: "Times New Roman";">As I approached my mid-30s,
the pain, hurt, and shame of earlier years was mostly gone. I attribute that
change to a conscious decision to no longer make decisions based on fear. The
shift in thinking changed my world and led me to make choices that sometimes violated
the cultural norms of my community regarding speaking openly about sexuality,
but that brought me so much peace and joy. I arrived at a place in which I
stopped worrying that I would be lonely and sad forever, and learned to trust
that God would always be there to guide my next step. I couldn’t have imagined
five years ago that I could hold the position I currently have at BYU as an
openly gay person. Much has changed. </span><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman",serif; font-size: 12pt; line-height: 200%; mso-fareast-font-family: "Times New Roman";"></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: 0in; text-indent: 0.5in;"><span style="color: black; font-family: "Times New Roman",serif; font-size: 12pt; line-height: 200%; mso-fareast-font-family: "Times New Roman";">In my lifetime I have
seen the Latter-day Saint community experience three phases in our approach to
LGBTQ folks. First, homosexuals were feared. Pious members were afraid of us
for being deviant, perverted, and carnal. We were perceived as actively defying
God’s laws and could change if we wanted to. Then we were pitied. We were
discussed as having struggles, trials, and inclinations. We were to be loved,
but not to be talked about. No one knew where our problem came from, but they
knew we had a problem. Now we’re approaching a third phase in which we can be honored
for the unique contributions we can make to the Kingdom of God. We have
definitely not arrived there yet, but that destination is on the horizon. And
yet things are still bad. The majority of LGBTQ Latter-day Saints I know still
feel feared or pitied in some degree. We have much to do to improve.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span></span><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman",serif; font-size: 12pt; line-height: 200%; mso-fareast-font-family: "Times New Roman";"></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: 0in; text-indent: 0.5in;"><span style="color: black; font-family: "Times New Roman",serif; font-size: 12pt; line-height: 200%; mso-fareast-font-family: "Times New Roman";">Church leaders are
guiding us to the hopefully near future when LGBTQ Church members will be honored.
Apostle M. Russell Ballard said at a campus wide BYU devotional in 2017, “We
need to listen to and understand what our LGBT brothers and sisters are feeling
and experiencing. Certainly, we must do better than we have done in the past so
that all members feel they have a spiritual home where their brothers and
sisters love them and where they have a place to worship and serve the
Lord." That is how the change will occur, when we listen and
understand. </span><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman",serif; font-size: 12pt; line-height: 200%; mso-fareast-font-family: "Times New Roman";"></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: 0in; text-indent: 0.5in;"><span style="color: black; font-family: "Times New Roman",serif; font-size: 12pt; line-height: 200%; mso-fareast-font-family: "Times New Roman";">In a lot of ways, I’m
already in this world of being honored. The Church’s publishing house Deseret
Book recently published my book <i>A Walk in My Shoes: Questions I’m Often
Asked as a Gay Latter-day Saint</i>. It’s one of only a handful of books they
have published written by an openly gay person. I also cohost the podcast <i>Questions
from the Closet </i>with a gay friend of mine. Every day I receive messages
from LGBTQ folks and straight folks thanking me for my book and the podcast. I
am regularly praised and celebrated for my contributions. It’s a lovely
position to be in, that only a precious few of us experience. One that I
experience because I have an unusually tidy story that has led me to a place
that most Church members are comfortable with. I have tried very hard not to be
a poster boy, but to elevate other voices so that listeners and readers can
truly “listen to and understand [their] LGBT brothers and sisters.” </span><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman",serif; font-size: 12pt; line-height: 200%; mso-fareast-font-family: "Times New Roman";"></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: 0in; text-indent: 0.5in;"><span style="color: black; font-family: "Times New Roman",serif; font-size: 12pt; line-height: 200%; mso-fareast-font-family: "Times New Roman";">Ten years ago, if you
had told me I’d be doing what I’m doing now, that I’d be thriving and loving life,
I would’ve thought that you were crazy. I often marvel that my life has ended
up so differently than I could have ever imagined, and yet I have ended up
doing so many meaningful, wonderful things. That’s what happens when I look at
the past. As I look to the future, I have no idea what I’ll be doing ten years
from now. I have no idea how or if I’ll be participating in the LGBTQ
Latter-day Saint world. But I hope ten years from now I’ll be irrelevant. Or
that I’ll at least have been replaced by many others. I hope ten years from now
people won’t ask, “Can you be gay and a Latter-day Saint?” because that
question will sound so silly. I hope ten years from now it won’t be a family
tragedy when a child comes out. I hope ten years from now having an openly
LGBTQ person in a congregation will be the norm and not a novelty. Things
are better than they have ever been for LGBTQ Latter-day Saints like me, but
they’re still bad. And I want help make things better. To paraphrase the teachings
of Hillel the Elder, “If not you, who? If not now, when?” (Pirkei Avot 1:14). Joseph
Smith taught that we should “waste and wear out our lives” (D&C 123:13) bringing
truth to light. </span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: 0in; text-indent: 0.5in;"><span style="color: black; font-family: "Times New Roman",serif; font-size: 12pt; line-height: 200%; mso-fareast-font-family: "Times New Roman";">I truly stand on the
shoulders of giants. So many people who paved the way for me to be able to do
what I’m doing today. I hope that I can lay a few pavers for those that come
after me. I lay a paver when someone reads my book or listens to my podcast. I lay
a paver when I’m asked to publicly share my experiences as a gay Latter-day
Saint. I lay a paver when I share my experiences organically in small settings.
But the most important pavers I lay are when LGBTQ students stop by my office
and I listen to their stories and encourage them. I tell them that the future
isn’t bleak, that it is brighter than they could possibly imagine. That they
will thrive as they align their choices with their values. And I tell them that
they are not broken heterosexuals, but they are whole as LGBTQ people. I don’t
know what I’ll be doing ten years from now, but I hope that those kids who now
come to my office in despair will get to live in a world in which they aren’t
feared or pitied, but that they are honored for the good people that they are.
That is the world that I am trying to build. In Latter-day Saint vernacular we
call that world Zion. </span><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman",serif; font-size: 12pt; line-height: 200%; mso-fareast-font-family: "Times New Roman";"></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal; margin-bottom: 12pt;"><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman",serif; font-size: 12pt; mso-fareast-font-family: "Times New Roman";"> </span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal; margin-bottom: 12pt;"><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman",serif; font-size: 12pt; mso-fareast-font-family: "Times New Roman";"> </span></p><p align="center" class="MsoNormal" style="margin-left: 0.5in; text-align: center; text-indent: -0.5in;"><b style="mso-bidi-font-weight: normal;"><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman",serif; font-size: 12pt; line-height: 200%;">Bibiography</span></b></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="margin-left: 0.5in; text-indent: -0.5in;"><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman",serif; font-size: 12pt; line-height: 200%;">Ballard,
M. R. (2017, November 14). <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">Questions and
Answers</i>. BYU Speeches. https://speeches.byu.edu/talks/m-russell-ballard/questions-and-answers/</span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman",serif; font-size: 12pt; line-height: 200%;">McKay, D. O. (1962, February). Free Agency… The Divine
Gift. <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">The Improvement Era, </i>86. </span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="margin-left: 0.5in; text-indent: -0.5in;"><span style="background: white none repeat scroll 0% 0%; color: #222222; font-family: "Times New Roman",serif; font-size: 12pt; line-height: 200%;">Petrey, T. G. (2020). <i>Tabernacles of
Clay: Sexuality and Gender in Modern Mormonism</i>. UNC Press Books.</span><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman",serif; font-size: 12pt; line-height: 200%;"></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal; margin-bottom: 12pt;"><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman",serif; font-size: 12pt; mso-fareast-font-family: "Times New Roman";"> </span></p>
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<w:LsdException Locked="false" Priority="9" SemiHidden="true"
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<w:LsdException Locked="false" Priority="9" SemiHidden="true"
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<w:LsdException Locked="false" Priority="9" SemiHidden="true"
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<w:LsdException Locked="false" SemiHidden="true" UnhideWhenUsed="true"
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<w:LsdException Locked="false" SemiHidden="true" UnhideWhenUsed="true"
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<w:LsdException Locked="false" SemiHidden="true" UnhideWhenUsed="true"
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<w:LsdException Locked="false" SemiHidden="true" UnhideWhenUsed="true"
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<w:LsdException Locked="false" SemiHidden="true" UnhideWhenUsed="true"
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<w:LsdException Locked="false" SemiHidden="true" UnhideWhenUsed="true"
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<w:LsdException Locked="false" SemiHidden="true" UnhideWhenUsed="true"
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<w:LsdException Locked="false" Priority="39" SemiHidden="true"
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<w:LsdException Locked="false" Priority="39" SemiHidden="true"
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<w:LsdException Locked="false" Priority="39" SemiHidden="true"
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<w:LsdException Locked="false" Priority="39" SemiHidden="true"
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<w:LsdException Locked="false" Priority="39" SemiHidden="true"
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<w:LsdException Locked="false" Priority="39" SemiHidden="true"
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<w:LsdException Locked="false" Priority="39" SemiHidden="true"
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<w:LsdException Locked="false" Priority="39" SemiHidden="true"
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<w:LsdException Locked="false" Priority="39" SemiHidden="true"
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<w:LsdException Locked="false" SemiHidden="true" UnhideWhenUsed="true"
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<w:LsdException Locked="false" SemiHidden="true" UnhideWhenUsed="true"
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<w:LsdException Locked="false" SemiHidden="true" UnhideWhenUsed="true"
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<w:LsdException Locked="false" SemiHidden="true" UnhideWhenUsed="true"
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<w:LsdException Locked="false" SemiHidden="true" UnhideWhenUsed="true"
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<w:LsdException Locked="false" Priority="35" SemiHidden="true"
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<w:LsdException Locked="false" SemiHidden="true" UnhideWhenUsed="true"
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<w:LsdException Locked="false" SemiHidden="true" UnhideWhenUsed="true"
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<w:LsdException Locked="false" SemiHidden="true" UnhideWhenUsed="true"
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<w:LsdException Locked="false" SemiHidden="true" UnhideWhenUsed="true"
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<w:LsdException Locked="false" SemiHidden="true" UnhideWhenUsed="true"
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<w:LsdException Locked="false" SemiHidden="true" UnhideWhenUsed="true"
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<w:LsdException Locked="false" SemiHidden="true" UnhideWhenUsed="true"
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<w:LsdException Locked="false" SemiHidden="true" UnhideWhenUsed="true"
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<w:LsdException Locked="false" SemiHidden="true" UnhideWhenUsed="true"
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<w:LsdException Locked="false" SemiHidden="true" UnhideWhenUsed="true"
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<w:LsdException Locked="false" SemiHidden="true" UnhideWhenUsed="true"
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<w:LsdException Locked="false" SemiHidden="true" UnhideWhenUsed="true"
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<w:LsdException Locked="false" Priority="10" QFormat="true" Name="Title"/>
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<w:LsdException Locked="false" SemiHidden="true" UnhideWhenUsed="true"
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<w:LsdException Locked="false" Priority="1" SemiHidden="true"
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<w:LsdException Locked="false" SemiHidden="true" UnhideWhenUsed="true"
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<w:LsdException Locked="false" SemiHidden="true" UnhideWhenUsed="true"
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<w:LsdException Locked="false" SemiHidden="true" UnhideWhenUsed="true"
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<w:LsdException Locked="false" SemiHidden="true" UnhideWhenUsed="true"
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<w:LsdException Locked="false" SemiHidden="true" UnhideWhenUsed="true"
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<w:LsdException Locked="false" Priority="22" QFormat="true" Name="Strong"/>
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<w:LsdException Locked="false" SemiHidden="true" UnhideWhenUsed="true"
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<w:LsdException Locked="false" SemiHidden="true" UnhideWhenUsed="true"
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<w:LsdException Locked="false" SemiHidden="true" UnhideWhenUsed="true"
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<w:LsdException Locked="false" SemiHidden="true" UnhideWhenUsed="true"
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<w:LsdException Locked="false" SemiHidden="true" UnhideWhenUsed="true"
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<w:LsdException Locked="false" SemiHidden="true" UnhideWhenUsed="true"
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<w:LsdException Locked="false" SemiHidden="true" UnhideWhenUsed="true"
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<w:LsdException Locked="false" SemiHidden="true" UnhideWhenUsed="true"
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<w:LsdException Locked="false" SemiHidden="true" UnhideWhenUsed="true"
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<w:LsdException Locked="false" SemiHidden="true" UnhideWhenUsed="true"
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<w:LsdException Locked="false" SemiHidden="true" UnhideWhenUsed="true"
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<w:LsdException Locked="false" SemiHidden="true" UnhideWhenUsed="true"
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<w:LsdException Locked="false" SemiHidden="true" UnhideWhenUsed="true"
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<w:LsdException Locked="false" SemiHidden="true" UnhideWhenUsed="true"
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<w:LsdException Locked="false" SemiHidden="true" UnhideWhenUsed="true"
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<w:LsdException Locked="false" SemiHidden="true" UnhideWhenUsed="true"
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<w:LsdException Locked="false" Priority="62" Name="Light Grid"/>
<w:LsdException Locked="false" Priority="63" Name="Medium Shading 1"/>
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<w:LsdException Locked="false" Priority="65" Name="Medium List 1"/>
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<w:LsdException Locked="false" Priority="69" Name="Medium Grid 3"/>
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<w:LsdException Locked="false" Priority="73" Name="Colorful Grid"/>
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<w:LsdException Locked="false" Priority="30" QFormat="true"
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<w:LsdException Locked="false" Priority="72" Name="Colorful List Accent 5"/>
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<w:LsdException Locked="false" Priority="60" Name="Light Shading Accent 6"/>
<w:LsdException Locked="false" Priority="61" Name="Light List Accent 6"/>
<w:LsdException Locked="false" Priority="62" Name="Light Grid Accent 6"/>
<w:LsdException Locked="false" Priority="63" Name="Medium Shading 1 Accent 6"/>
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<w:LsdException Locked="false" Priority="65" Name="Medium List 1 Accent 6"/>
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<w:LsdException Locked="false" Priority="67" Name="Medium Grid 1 Accent 6"/>
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<w:LsdException Locked="false" Priority="70" Name="Dark List Accent 6"/>
<w:LsdException Locked="false" Priority="71" Name="Colorful Shading Accent 6"/>
<w:LsdException Locked="false" Priority="72" Name="Colorful List Accent 6"/>
<w:LsdException Locked="false" Priority="73" Name="Colorful Grid Accent 6"/>
<w:LsdException Locked="false" Priority="19" QFormat="true"
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<w:LsdException Locked="false" Priority="21" QFormat="true"
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<w:LsdException Locked="false" Priority="31" QFormat="true"
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<w:LsdException Locked="false" Priority="32" QFormat="true"
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<w:LsdException Locked="false" Priority="33" QFormat="true" Name="Book Title"/>
<w:LsdException Locked="false" Priority="37" SemiHidden="true"
UnhideWhenUsed="true" Name="Bibliography"/>
<w:LsdException Locked="false" Priority="39" SemiHidden="true"
UnhideWhenUsed="true" QFormat="true" Name="TOC Heading"/>
<w:LsdException Locked="false" Priority="41" Name="Plain Table 1"/>
<w:LsdException Locked="false" Priority="42" Name="Plain Table 2"/>
<w:LsdException Locked="false" Priority="43" Name="Plain Table 3"/>
<w:LsdException Locked="false" Priority="44" Name="Plain Table 4"/>
<w:LsdException Locked="false" Priority="45" Name="Plain Table 5"/>
<w:LsdException Locked="false" Priority="40" Name="Grid Table Light"/>
<w:LsdException Locked="false" Priority="46" Name="Grid Table 1 Light"/>
<w:LsdException Locked="false" Priority="47" Name="Grid Table 2"/>
<w:LsdException Locked="false" Priority="48" Name="Grid Table 3"/>
<w:LsdException Locked="false" Priority="49" Name="Grid Table 4"/>
<w:LsdException Locked="false" Priority="50" Name="Grid Table 5 Dark"/>
<w:LsdException Locked="false" Priority="51" Name="Grid Table 6 Colorful"/>
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<![endif]-->Benhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/04151204932376899998noreply@blogger.com9tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7565469030539917833.post-59601397232346744352022-05-26T15:47:00.000-07:002022-05-26T15:47:50.674-07:00Remembering Alison<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiePuGS8JiTOinIigSVfdbhZDUvGEhqwcIFdNDojH0cHEe6wWzA7sLFB7QhK7XUI_A4fnwiUARZQ0EQF3WYIwVOAdu5VwsepbxDK2pfljEintIn57cR6IFMbCpZAwCmLruaspcmf7d7XavtGUtt47fk8ckaNsJaQQ-hueOew8mKSW2R9logn6a4hBvcnQ/s2048/Alison3.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="2048" data-original-width="1536" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiePuGS8JiTOinIigSVfdbhZDUvGEhqwcIFdNDojH0cHEe6wWzA7sLFB7QhK7XUI_A4fnwiUARZQ0EQF3WYIwVOAdu5VwsepbxDK2pfljEintIn57cR6IFMbCpZAwCmLruaspcmf7d7XavtGUtt47fk8ckaNsJaQQ-hueOew8mKSW2R9logn6a4hBvcnQ/s320/Alison3.jpg" width="240" /></a></div><p>Last Friday I learned that my friend Alison had passed away earlier that morning. She was diagnosed with cancer just the week before and then she gone. She is one of a number of people who have opened their door to me and made their house my home. </p><p>In the spring of 2015 I needed a new place to live in Tucson. My friend fun Laura sent me an advertisement that had been emailed to everyone in her master's program about a retired woman looking to rent a room to a female international students. I definitely did not fit that description, but I was intrigued. I emailed her anyway and she invited me over to the house. A few days later I pulled up to the house and said out loud to myself, "I want to live here." We hit it off and I moved in a shortly after that. </p><p>It's always a bit awkward moving into someone else's house, but Alison made me comfortable immediately. When she showed me my room she said, "The last tenant had her bed over by the window, but personally I'd put it by the wall under the A/C vent." I agreed and moved the bed. </p><p>I talk about Alison all the time when I give firesides. She's one of the "retired lesbians" I always talk about ("They were retired professionally, not from being lesbians."). I also mention Alison and her partner in my book and in my <a href="https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=63lwcxP8ZVQ&t=19s">TEDx BYU talk</a>. Alison was so honored to be part of my story. She asked me not to use her name and I honored that request. When the first box of books arrived I mailed her a signed copy that day. After reading it she said, "Why did you write this for Mormons? Everyone needs to read it!" Alison always believed in me. </p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEimvvuxp_jPYn2GpwvnUxC1qsAlTOGsaepzB1cdqCuPzNE1MM7yzPDx_GGHMoErSEoOlp6RDVU_LVgVdniVktghMzaEb_oNN8GD-73AhoUphEy8kutubxtmwLEgpmZ85son8WD99ueqvIvOlPrybFvgeoIyaBnYVKONN3MSFUqmv3HCu-T7Zzay2hZJCQ/s1280/Alison1.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1280" data-original-width="960" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEimvvuxp_jPYn2GpwvnUxC1qsAlTOGsaepzB1cdqCuPzNE1MM7yzPDx_GGHMoErSEoOlp6RDVU_LVgVdniVktghMzaEb_oNN8GD-73AhoUphEy8kutubxtmwLEgpmZ85son8WD99ueqvIvOlPrybFvgeoIyaBnYVKONN3MSFUqmv3HCu-T7Zzay2hZJCQ/s320/Alison1.jpg" width="240" /></a></div><p>Our house became a central hub of LGBTQ Latter-day Saint gatherings in Tucson the year and a half I lived there. I'd always ask Alison's permission before filling her house up with people yet again. She was always so happy to have us gather in her home. When I'd tell her about some event I was planning she would sometimes put her hand on my shoulder and say, "You're doing important work. I'm so proud of you." </p><p>Alison wasn't shy about complaining or pointing out an injustice in the world or something that just wasn't working. One day she was complaining about something related to the house and I asked if there was something I could do differently. She said, "Benji, you're a prince." Only a few people in my life have ever called me Benji. </p><p>One day I was leaving for school on my bike and Alison was out in the front yard. I had my headphones in and no helmet on. In a stern voice she said, "Ben, please tell me..." and I was prepared to get a talking to about the importance of helmets and not listening to music while riding, but she ended the end sentence, "...that you're wearing sunscreen." "I am!" I replied. And then she waved goodbye as I rode off to school. <br /></p><p>I typed the first words of my dissertation sitting in Alison's living room. She had completed a PhD decades before and told me stories of writing on note cards and legal pads and then paying someone to type everything up on a typewriter. So different than me sitting with my laptop using a word processor. We often talked about my school work and how much things had changed. It was quite a gift to be living with someone who had written a dissertation while going through that grueling process. </p><p></p><table cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="float: right; margin-left: 1em; text-align: right;"><tbody><tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhcGAo6xJDvcYPR1ZMLSIDTA4iKUZ1aNJ3g07u2W8Wk78wfUhNAFahtSxcmqwgAoxnQI4_mZBEgHPqMX4zQLHi8Kl2kMPTM-H25ULQIvdHFctqd_hz7aLTe5VQ2HzzQyZ-0Fd4nYhcSN-KiBPqrtmrkSWcLEiF4k-yaKEXwCcN8PwHxocxzY3ZFjGQe2A/s1600/Alison%20house.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1200" data-original-width="1600" height="240" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhcGAo6xJDvcYPR1ZMLSIDTA4iKUZ1aNJ3g07u2W8Wk78wfUhNAFahtSxcmqwgAoxnQI4_mZBEgHPqMX4zQLHi8Kl2kMPTM-H25ULQIvdHFctqd_hz7aLTe5VQ2HzzQyZ-0Fd4nYhcSN-KiBPqrtmrkSWcLEiF4k-yaKEXwCcN8PwHxocxzY3ZFjGQe2A/s320/Alison%20house.JPG" width="320" /></a></td></tr><tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Alison's house<br /></td></tr></tbody></table>Alison and her partner were in Seattle in June 2016 while I was home visiting my parents. My parents wanted to meet them so we had them over for dinner. My mom and I went to the store to get food and she had trouble figuring out what to buy. Then when we got home she couldn't figure out how make the dinner. This was my first clue that something was not right with my mom. Alison and her partner came over that night and we had lovely time chatting and I was thrilled that they got to meet my parents. Two months after that dinner I was sitting in my bedroom in Alison's house in Tucson when I got the news that my mom had been diagnosed with Alzheimer's. That's where I first cried about losing my mom. So many important memories in my life, good and bad, are tied to my time living with Alison. <br /><p></p><p>In the days since I've learned about Alison's passing I've spent a lot of timing thinking about her and her impact on my life. Our friendship was so random and unexpected, and yet it was exactly what I needed. She didn't always understand why I made the choices I did, but she always honored those choices and cheered me on. <br /></p><p>I have this thing I do when someone I love dies. I pray that some of my relatives will greet that person in the Spirit World and thank them for helping me here on earth. I believe in an afterlife and I hope that Dorothy and Walt Schilaty and Malvene Grimshaw and Monty Smith have gotten to talk with Alison and thank her for all she did for me. Alison was Buddhist and she cared deeply about people, the planet, and all living things. I was one of those living things that she loved. And I was lucky enough to be her family. </p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhvTVRCCxO1B-wU-P74wu6Axs_gesjp939BTfnm6P1JtdopJs4Enh9dLEKo-l_L4l96f3GY31cO-LtFLTTAtB3pTU00CQx04ycn6ZJoVs7JcW7pIWhE3afE3Z0tA5GwUAguwBOG5IcJFnnA4VBdMoHA8x8zWLZalzgXbu7QeFWfSubfNv87SSWGVwOx9A/s2048/Alison2.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1536" data-original-width="2048" height="240" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhvTVRCCxO1B-wU-P74wu6Axs_gesjp939BTfnm6P1JtdopJs4Enh9dLEKo-l_L4l96f3GY31cO-LtFLTTAtB3pTU00CQx04ycn6ZJoVs7JcW7pIWhE3afE3Z0tA5GwUAguwBOG5IcJFnnA4VBdMoHA8x8zWLZalzgXbu7QeFWfSubfNv87SSWGVwOx9A/s320/Alison2.jpg" width="320" /></a></div><br /><p><br /></p>Benhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/04151204932376899998noreply@blogger.com14tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7565469030539917833.post-90340211393368911692022-05-15T12:56:00.000-07:002022-05-15T12:56:03.462-07:00 She Doesn’t Dance Anymore<p></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgkffI4J7gHuPgOLGChlgivKAqw0jH76FH9jn89WAxlxWgMGosK4daiDJ0tL5dDoZHN4a_hJjBCt7mwMh4FsPNXOxtusbHY5y_rn53rm610ALYfEUnvvScI1WRVM9P9SOT6mBBiceu7cai1mtAfLJ9427cSvv-GQZV-siSfH8xpBCUUj2APF36FTusqkw/s3362/DE3B9BB8-34A0-4D48-9163-02629F101F1E_1_201_a.heic" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="2625" data-original-width="3362" height="250" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgkffI4J7gHuPgOLGChlgivKAqw0jH76FH9jn89WAxlxWgMGosK4daiDJ0tL5dDoZHN4a_hJjBCt7mwMh4FsPNXOxtusbHY5y_rn53rm610ALYfEUnvvScI1WRVM9P9SOT6mBBiceu7cai1mtAfLJ9427cSvv-GQZV-siSfH8xpBCUUj2APF36FTusqkw/s320/DE3B9BB8-34A0-4D48-9163-02629F101F1E_1_201_a.heic" width="320" /></a></div><span style="font-family: Calibri, sans-serif;"><p><span style="font-family: Calibri, sans-serif;"><br /></span></p>Alzheimer’s destroys a person slowly. The brain gradually builds up plaque and stops working little by little. It’s hard to notice the change when you’re around the person every day. But you notice when you’ve been away. Before this visit I hadn’t seen my mom for more than four months. I noticed the change.</span><p></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: Calibri, sans-serif; margin: 0in 0in 0.0001pt;">I think the clearest memories of my mom with dementia will be from 2020. I spent a total of four months staying at my parents’ house that year. That time really was a gift. My mom was so thrilled to do literally anything with me so we went on walks, took long drives, read books, watched shows and explored lots of corners of western Washington. She watched three entire seasons of <i>Stranger Things </i>with me<i>. </i>Not a show that Ginny Schilaty with a fully functioning brain would have liked. When an episode would end, she’d say, “Wanna watch another one?” And I’d say, “I guess we should.” <o:p></o:p></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: Calibri, sans-serif; margin: 0in 0in 0.0001pt;"><o:p> </o:p></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: Calibri, sans-serif; margin: 0in 0in 0.0001pt;">My mom has been so active which has caused a lot of trouble. She’s always “cleaning” or “putting things away” which mostly just causes chaos. But in her mind she’s helping. During the months I spent at home in 2020 I spent a lot of time reading to her because it kept her from “cleaning” and gave my dad a break. She’d sit and listen for quite a while even though she had no idea what the books were about. Sometimes I even read to her in Spanish (a language that she is zero percent fluent in). I tried to read with a lot of inflection to keep her interest and every page or so I’d ask her what she thought. She would then mutter a bunch of random words strung together and then when she was done I’d say, “I think you’re exactly right,” and then get back to reading. </p><p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: Calibri, sans-serif; margin: 0in 0in 0.0001pt;"><br /></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgXUrNJUWs80cE6yUgrSfJd9FTpF04Fi3JRKprpj5SKZBoBongXe0SLg9b97-ElItTjxTObhjxPk7rrpNw0oy08WYse5QTIJovALTH-nIWOisiJpInS7kFOsAfCR3qbbirDSd5FnEhZKCh8EZu2WsIK6ArKJAAO45h_AcEiV7ShzqkRZxaVsc_ufd6OnQ/s3088/874D11CD-578A-4D44-9FD3-1F3154865B08.heic" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; float: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="3088" data-original-width="2316" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgXUrNJUWs80cE6yUgrSfJd9FTpF04Fi3JRKprpj5SKZBoBongXe0SLg9b97-ElItTjxTObhjxPk7rrpNw0oy08WYse5QTIJovALTH-nIWOisiJpInS7kFOsAfCR3qbbirDSd5FnEhZKCh8EZu2WsIK6ArKJAAO45h_AcEiV7ShzqkRZxaVsc_ufd6OnQ/s320/874D11CD-578A-4D44-9FD3-1F3154865B08.heic" width="240" /></a></div><p></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: Calibri, sans-serif; margin: 0in 0in 0.0001pt;">I definitely can be selfish and impatient so during her nonsensical jabbering sometimes I’d text someone or read silently on my phone hoping she wouldn’t notice. One time I was doing this and paying zero attention to what she was saying and then she finished her thought, “So you really could make quite a bit of money.” If only I’d been listening. <o:p></o:p></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: Calibri, sans-serif; margin: 0in 0in 0.0001pt;"><o:p> </o:p></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: Calibri, sans-serif; margin: 0in 0in 0.0001pt;">My mom loves being at our house and when we were away on outings, she’d often ask to come home. As a way to distract her, my brother, nieces, and I would start dancing. She’d join in the fun and for a few minutes forget she wanted to go home. Then when she brought it up again, we’d start dancing and she’d laugh and dance and forget about going home. It became a thing we’d do all the time. <o:p></o:p></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: Calibri, sans-serif; margin: 0in 0in 0.0001pt;"><o:p> </o:p></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: Calibri, sans-serif; margin: 0in 0in 0.0001pt;">In February 2021 she was moved to a memory care unit. My dad had been her primary caregiver for five years. Most husbands only last a few months. I visited her a few times that year at her new home. We went on walks and played catch and I read to her on the rocking chairs on the porch. When she’d see me, she’d light up and give me a big hug. <o:p></o:p></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: Calibri, sans-serif; margin: 0in 0in 0.0001pt;"><o:p> </o:p></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: Calibri, sans-serif; margin: 0in 0in 0.0001pt;">This visit has been different. If I were to describe my mom now the main word that comes to my mind is <i>vacant</i>. She’s there, but barely. When she saw me for the first time in four months this past Sunday, she gave me a hug, kissed my chest, and said, “I live you” (not a typo). I asked her questions and tried to talk to her, but she was just so vacant. I’ve been back a few times this week and one day she was more present, but mostly she was just there and yet not really there. <o:p></o:p></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: Calibri, sans-serif; margin: 0in 0in 0.0001pt;"><o:p> </o:p></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: Calibri, sans-serif; margin: 0in 0in 0.0001pt;">I tried to read to her. Before she would nod her head along like she was listening. This time she just stared off into the distance. Before she would sit and listen for a long time. This time after about 30 seconds she started to stand up to leave. “Mom, can you sit down please?” She didn’t sit down. “Mom, I need you to sit down.” And then I tugged on her hand and she sat down. This happened about 15 times. <o:p></o:p></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: Calibri, sans-serif; margin: 0in 0in 0.0001pt;"><o:p> </o:p></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: Calibri, sans-serif; margin: 0in 0in 0.0001pt;">When we went on a walk, she pointed out our car out of the dozen or so in the parking lot and said, “That’s my shar.” Strange that she remembers her car. I tried to get her to dance like before. She smiled but didn’t get the game. That day a friend asked me how my mom was doing. “She doesn’t dance anymore,” I said. <o:p></o:p></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: Calibri, sans-serif; margin: 0in 0in 0.0001pt;"><o:p> </o:p></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: Calibri, sans-serif; margin: 0in 0in 0.0001pt;">This week I posted some pictures on social media of visiting my mom. A selfie with her on Mothers’ Day, her holding hands with my dad, us going on walk. But what doesn’t come through well in those stories are the serious conversations we’re having. Does she even know we’re visiting? How much do these visits matter? What is best for her? But she is still mom so we keep visiting. <o:p></o:p></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: Calibri, sans-serif; margin: 0in 0in 0.0001pt;"><o:p> </o:p></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiGokKre9tQvfFpkLeHtBmlb22tJjIRimcHXzhGBb21OXruzCQoN7NaTccfh0-0jjCLt9vSaI1kkUZV5RUe69olc293sm1N_V4LQUdl6OAU89L3B9vOQMrwvw4amijn-Qi8QCDDGeEfzX8RmkCDW34wdPhwJ_MTgehxUrfyF_smuBObq8mJCvCVyczoPA/s4032/E9356472-928E-43F9-9DD0-01C71B175840.heic" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="4032" data-original-width="3024" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiGokKre9tQvfFpkLeHtBmlb22tJjIRimcHXzhGBb21OXruzCQoN7NaTccfh0-0jjCLt9vSaI1kkUZV5RUe69olc293sm1N_V4LQUdl6OAU89L3B9vOQMrwvw4amijn-Qi8QCDDGeEfzX8RmkCDW34wdPhwJ_MTgehxUrfyF_smuBObq8mJCvCVyczoPA/s320/E9356472-928E-43F9-9DD0-01C71B175840.heic" width="240" /></a></div><p></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: Calibri, sans-serif; margin: 0in 0in 0.0001pt;">There’s been some crying this week. My dad cries almost every time we drive away. And he cries when he hugs her and tells her he loves her. One day he cried saying that he thought the end was coming and that she wouldn’t be around much longer. Tears because she’s alive and it’s sad, and tears thinking of her dying. There’s sadness no matter what happens. Sadness because she’s still here but mostly gone. Sadness because someday she’ll be completely gone. It’s sadness that comes from loss. A slow, gradual, painful loss. There is no winning with this disease. It’s all just so sad. <o:p></o:p></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: Calibri, sans-serif; margin: 0in 0in 0.0001pt;"><o:p> </o:p></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: Calibri, sans-serif; margin: 0in 0in 0.0001pt;">Recently I was reading volume three of <i>Saints </i>and came across this lighthearted poem written by Susa Young Gates: <o:p></o:p></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: Calibri, sans-serif; margin: 0in 0in 0.0001pt;"><o:p> </o:p></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: Calibri, sans-serif; margin: 0in 0in 0.0001pt; text-align: center;"><i>When I have quit this mortal shore<o:p></o:p></i></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: Calibri, sans-serif; margin: 0in 0in 0.0001pt; text-align: center;"><i>And “mosey” round this earth no more<o:p></o:p></i></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: Calibri, sans-serif; margin: 0in 0in 0.0001pt; text-align: center;"><i>Don’t mourn, don’t weep, don’t sigh, don’t sob<o:p></o:p></i></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: Calibri, sans-serif; margin: 0in 0in 0.0001pt; text-align: center;"><i>I may have struck a better job. </i><o:p></o:p></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: Calibri, sans-serif; margin: 0in 0in 0.0001pt;"><o:p> </o:p></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: Calibri, sans-serif; margin: 0in 0in 0.0001pt;">Two days after my mom’s diagnosis in 2016 I got a call from Kevin’s dad Ken who had become my adopted father in Tucson. I had emailed him and the rest of their family to tell them about my mom’s diagnosis. Ken called me to see how I was doing. I told him how much my mom loved to serve and help others, and how it broke my heart that Alzheimer’s would take that from her. Then I started to cry and said, “But I know that someday she’ll be whole again and she’ll get to serve and love better than ever before.” <o:p></o:p></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: Calibri, sans-serif; margin: 0in 0in 0.0001pt;"><o:p> </o:p></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: Calibri, sans-serif; margin: 0in 0in 0.0001pt;">I’ve mourned, I’ve wept, I’ve sighed, and I’ve sobbed. Ginny Schilaty deserves an existence of dignity, productivity, connection, and service. Alzheimer’s has taken so much from her. And yet I know that because of the Atonement of Jesus Christ she’ll strike “a better job.” And she’ll dance again. <o:p></o:p></p>Benhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/04151204932376899998noreply@blogger.com46tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7565469030539917833.post-16697419858505967812022-04-17T11:20:00.000-07:002022-04-17T11:20:01.410-07:00A 1/4 Romance and the Choice to Not Be in Love<p><br /></p><span id="docs-internal-guid-ed91be6a-7fff-da54-b607-4aedac36654e"><p dir="ltr" style="line-height: 1.38; margin-bottom: 0pt; margin-top: 0pt;"><span style="font-family: Arial; font-size: 11pt; font-variant-east-asian: normal; font-variant-ligatures: normal; font-variant-position: normal; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;"><span style="font-family: -webkit-standard; font-size: medium; white-space: normal;">T</span><span style="font-size: 11pt;">his is definitely an odd and awkward post to follow my previous post detailing all my same-sex romances (which totaled one and a quarter). It’s been a few years since I’ve had a real crush on someone. I mean, I’ve had plenty of little crushes, but not like a real crush. Until last month. His name is Mark.</span></span></p><p dir="ltr" style="line-height: 1.38; margin-bottom: 0pt; margin-top: 0pt;"><span style="font-family: Arial; font-size: 11pt; font-variant-east-asian: normal; font-variant-ligatures: normal; font-variant-position: normal; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;"><span style="font-size: 11pt;"><br /></span></span></p><p dir="ltr" style="line-height: 1.38; margin-bottom: 0pt; margin-top: 0pt;"><span style="font-family: Arial; font-size: 11pt; white-space: pre-wrap;">When I was 23 and in the closet I read dozens of blogs written by gay Latter-day Saints. One was written by Mark and it ended up being my favorite. I’ve even been sharing a screenshot from a post he wrote in my fireside presentations for years. He really helped me through a tough time. Then he stopped posting, seven years passed, and suddenly I was 30. </span></p><br /><p dir="ltr" style="line-height: 1.38; margin-bottom: 0pt; margin-top: 0pt;"><span style="font-family: Arial; font-size: 11pt; font-variant-east-asian: normal; font-variant-ligatures: normal; font-variant-position: normal; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;">In August 2014 things with Jordan had just ended and I was an emotional mess. I was playing volleyball at the Tucson Institute on a Tuesday night and stayed after to chat with a new guy who had just moved to town. As we chatted in the parking lot I came out to him which felt like a huge deal because he was the first person I casually came out to. I was not prepared for his response, “I’ve got a gay friend back in Florida that I’d like to set you up with.” I politely declined telling him that I wasn’t looking to date. Then he showed me his friend’s picture and it was Mark! I said, “I don’t want to date him, but I do want to meet him.” He gave me Mark’s number. <table cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="float: left; margin-right: 1em; text-align: left;"><tbody><tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhVJXPYjxV6lUWzrSM6GLzrJgPL1IFPQRtQntd0tIcdWlE-u_5rkmJ1DKB3PNts8YNngDDY1FuYQgjm8EOU7QmVXu4opq6eDQpW_9r8ABoRF_dahAJxEbp4PvLAY9dDV3d9Yn7zouK1rGHaOmJo8HskiBaQ8CHgH2i1j6eipxiG5WkqMrefXv5iiRGLQA/s3264/9DE76549-D5EA-4A63-8385-2AF3BB537F3D.jpeg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" data-original-height="3264" data-original-width="2448" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhVJXPYjxV6lUWzrSM6GLzrJgPL1IFPQRtQntd0tIcdWlE-u_5rkmJ1DKB3PNts8YNngDDY1FuYQgjm8EOU7QmVXu4opq6eDQpW_9r8ABoRF_dahAJxEbp4PvLAY9dDV3d9Yn7zouK1rGHaOmJo8HskiBaQ8CHgH2i1j6eipxiG5WkqMrefXv5iiRGLQA/s320/9DE76549-D5EA-4A63-8385-2AF3BB537F3D.jpeg" width="240" /></a></td></tr><tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">I don't of a picture of us from that<br />trip, but I do have a picture of Mark<br /> standing in fun Laura's shower</td></tr></tbody></table></span></p><p dir="ltr" style="line-height: 1.38; margin-bottom: 0pt; margin-top: 0pt;"><span style="font-family: Arial; font-size: 11pt; white-space: pre-wrap;"><br /></span></p><p dir="ltr" style="line-height: 1.38; margin-bottom: 0pt; margin-top: 0pt;"><span style="font-family: Arial; font-size: 11pt; white-space: pre-wrap;">Mark and I texted a bit and then talked on the phone once. He told me he was going to be in Phoenix for work in a few weeks and offered to come down to Tucson for the weekend. I was thrilled. Mark stayed at my house for three days. He goes to bed way earlier than I do, which meant he wanted to get up far too early to go on adventures. One evening I lied and told him that an attraction he wanted to see opened later than it actually did so I could sleep in. He was understandably annoyed when he found out–and has never let me forget it. </span></p><p dir="ltr" style="line-height: 1.38; margin-bottom: 0pt; margin-top: 0pt;"><span style="font-family: Arial; font-size: 11pt; font-variant-east-asian: normal; font-variant-ligatures: normal; font-variant-position: normal; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;"><br /></span></p><p dir="ltr" style="line-height: 1.38; margin-bottom: 0pt; margin-top: 0pt;"><span style="font-family: Arial; font-size: 11pt; font-variant-east-asian: normal; font-variant-ligatures: normal; font-variant-position: normal; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;">Mark was the first gay member of the Church I’d really talked to about being gay aside from Jordan. It was nice to share my feelings with someone who understood what it was like to be me. It was really nice actually. But we didn’t click romantically. I misinterpreted his jokes as rudeness. My love language is words of affirmation and his love language appeared to be pushing all my buttons. And then he left. And I didn’t miss him. But that visit changed me. Mark inspired me to walk away from shame and self doubt and toward honesty and productivity. I came out publicly a few months later. </span></p><br /><p dir="ltr" style="line-height: 1.38; margin-bottom: 0pt; margin-top: 0pt;"><span style="font-family: Arial; font-size: 11pt; font-variant-east-asian: normal; font-variant-ligatures: normal; font-variant-position: normal; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;">Over the next seven years we’d occasionally text, but we weren’t really present in each other’s lives. Then he started listening to “Questions from the Closet,” and would text me about episodes he liked (like I said, my love language is words of affirmation). In one episode I mentioned how I covered all the podcast expenses myself. He messaged and said that if I needed any money for the podcast to let him know. I told him we were planning a live event and asked if he’d pitch in to help cover the cost. He asked how much I needed. I said $20-$50, not wanting to ask for too much, but told him how much I had paid for the event. Mark then Venmo’d me $1 because he thinks he’s funny. A minute later he sent me all the money for the event. It felt like a miracle. </span></p><br /><p dir="ltr" style="line-height: 1.38; margin-bottom: 0pt; margin-top: 0pt;"><span style="font-family: Arial; font-size: 11pt; font-variant-east-asian: normal; font-variant-ligatures: normal; font-variant-position: normal; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;">At the live event I told this story. I told how Mark had helped me with his blog back in the day and how now my podcast was helping him. I testified that God brings people into our lives for a reason and it was the best part of the event for me. The moment was completely spontaneous and Spirit-driven. I remember Sarah the moderator shouting “Yeah, Mark!” and then everyone applauding this person that they didn’t know. And I felt grateful that our paths had crossed again. </span></p><br /><p dir="ltr" style="line-height: 1.38; margin-bottom: 0pt; margin-top: 0pt;"><span style="font-family: Arial; font-size: 11pt; font-variant-east-asian: normal; font-variant-ligatures: normal; font-variant-position: normal; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;">Then at the end of 2021 we were planning our next live event and I told Mark he should fly out to be there in person. And he came. This was only the second time we’d seen each other. The day of the live event I was super stressed. He ran errands for me to lighten my load. He walked to my office and walked me home after work and told me I would do great. On the car ride to the live event he put on music he knew I would like and we belted the lyrics to calm my nerves. Although I offered to give him a shoutout at the event, he declined and sat in the back by himself. And then after the event he waited more than an hour for me while I talked to people and signed books and then he helped me carry stuff to the car. </span></p><br /><p dir="ltr" style="line-height: 1.38; margin-bottom: 0pt; margin-top: 0pt;"><table cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="float: right;"><tbody><tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEis8FwcxfSbQK796Rz693dDnlzXcCDAgrL8KYZ5emF7p4HdMyYejVPnxWX18TmozI2yk_F0jBHc_5V6pEl_tMt_NqT--7DWioaBlPQ80WwSB0AFJWtv-IJIJEK9uRPTswkn7DS_SZLRz1XOcxmFdA7k4PGOrIwwCZd-g-co_pCgOyUO8kX_asPKYrM_Bg/s3088/712D4468-CAF1-4B2A-AD1F-0F8E917F8D7F.heic" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" data-original-height="3088" data-original-width="2316" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEis8FwcxfSbQK796Rz693dDnlzXcCDAgrL8KYZ5emF7p4HdMyYejVPnxWX18TmozI2yk_F0jBHc_5V6pEl_tMt_NqT--7DWioaBlPQ80WwSB0AFJWtv-IJIJEK9uRPTswkn7DS_SZLRz1XOcxmFdA7k4PGOrIwwCZd-g-co_pCgOyUO8kX_asPKYrM_Bg/s320/712D4468-CAF1-4B2A-AD1F-0F8E917F8D7F.heic" width="240" /></a></td></tr><tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Me and Mark on the bridge</td></tr></tbody></table><span style="font-family: Arial; font-size: 11pt; font-variant-east-asian: normal; font-variant-ligatures: normal; font-variant-position: normal; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;">I don’t have a best friend here in Provo. I have a lot of great friends, but not a best friend. You know, the kind of person that you just do whatever with and they’re always down. There’s this new bridge in Orem that crosses the freeway I’ve been wanting to walk across for a long time, but never have. For months I’d drive by it and for some reason it reminded me that I wanted a best friend. When Mark was in town, we walked it together. It was incredibly loud, but it was fun to be there with Mark. </span></p><p dir="ltr" style="line-height: 1.38; margin-bottom: 0pt; margin-top: 0pt;"><span style="font-family: Arial; font-size: 11pt; font-variant-east-asian: normal; font-variant-ligatures: normal; font-variant-position: normal; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;"><br /></span></p><p dir="ltr" style="line-height: 1.38; margin-bottom: 0pt; margin-top: 0pt;"><span style="font-family: Arial; font-size: 11pt; font-variant-east-asian: normal; font-variant-ligatures: normal; font-variant-position: normal; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;">That weekend was a confusing mess of emotions for me. When I invited Mark to visit I had zero romantic feelings for him. And I assumed he felt the same way. And then I kind of liked him, but I wasn’t sure. And he seemed to maybe like me, too? But he was hard to read and I didn’t know what he was feeling or what I was feeling. He kept joking about us getting married, but he was surely kidding, right? </span></p><p dir="ltr" style="line-height: 1.38; margin-bottom: 0pt; margin-top: 0pt;"><span style="font-family: Arial; font-size: 11pt; white-space: pre-wrap;"><br /></span></p><p dir="ltr" style="line-height: 1.38; margin-bottom: 0pt; margin-top: 0pt;"><span style="font-family: Arial; font-size: 11pt; white-space: pre-wrap;">The night before he left I wrote this in my journal: “When Mark has his walls down he’s pretty reMARKable (I’m even punny in my journal). I asked him if he really wanted to marry me, or if he was just joking. He said, ‘I’d like to get to know you better.’ I feel the same way. And it sucks that we live in a world where us dating isn’t even an option for me. I super wanted to kiss him tonight, but I didn’t. Mark and I definitely need to learn to communicate better. But I think if we worked on things we could have a really lovely relationship. But we won’t get to know. So Mark is leaving tomorrow and I have a crush on him and he might have a crush on me. And I also think he’s super rude and annoying from time to time. Is that what love is?” </span></p><p dir="ltr" style="line-height: 1.38; margin-bottom: 0pt; margin-top: 0pt;"><span style="font-family: Arial; font-size: 11pt; font-variant-east-asian: normal; font-variant-ligatures: normal; font-variant-position: normal; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;"><br /></span></p><p dir="ltr" style="line-height: 1.38; margin-bottom: 0pt; margin-top: 0pt;"><span style="font-family: Arial; font-size: 11pt; font-variant-east-asian: normal; font-variant-ligatures: normal; font-variant-position: normal; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;">Mark and I texted after he left and I just kept liking him more and more. And then that Friday I drove to St. George and we talked for an hour and a half on the drive down. I wished we could’ve talked the entire drive. And then I realized what was happening. I was treating Mark like a boy I wanted to date. </span></p><p dir="ltr" style="line-height: 1.38; margin-bottom: 0pt; margin-top: 0pt;"><span style="font-family: Arial; font-size: 11pt; font-variant-east-asian: normal; font-variant-ligatures: normal; font-variant-position: normal; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;"><br /></span></p><p dir="ltr" style="line-height: 1.38; margin-bottom: 0pt; margin-top: 0pt;"><span style="font-family: Arial; font-size: 11pt; font-variant-east-asian: normal; font-variant-ligatures: normal; font-variant-position: normal; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;">Two days later I drove back the three and half hours to Provo and called Mark again. After we chatted about our days and joked about dumb stuff and teased each other in ways that I imagine people who like each other do, I abruptly changed the subject. I told him I wanted to be his friend, but that I couldn’t let anything romantic happen between us. I jabbered for a bit and apologized profusely, but definitely not enough. I then said, “Okay, those are all my feelings. What are your feelings about my feelings?” He said that his feelings are usually just a jumble and are hard to put into words. I asked him to try. “I’m sad,” he said. </span></p><p dir="ltr" style="line-height: 1.38; margin-bottom: 0pt; margin-top: 0pt;"><span style="font-family: Arial; font-size: 11pt; white-space: pre-wrap;"><br /></span></p><p dir="ltr" style="line-height: 1.38; margin-bottom: 0pt; margin-top: 0pt;"><span style="font-family: Arial; font-size: 11pt; white-space: pre-wrap;">When I got home I pulled out a copy of my book and reread the chapter I’d written about Jordan. I noticed so many similarities between what happened with Jordan and what was beginning to happen with Mark. And I was kicking myself for hurting another person. I hadn’t meant to, but I had. It had just happened. I had let it happen. I had allowed myself to open up my heart to liking someone again, and I let him like me, too. And now we were both sad. </span></p><p dir="ltr" style="line-height: 1.38; margin-bottom: 0pt; margin-top: 0pt;"><span style="font-family: Arial; font-size: 11pt; white-space: pre-wrap;"><br /></span></p><p dir="ltr" style="line-height: 1.38; margin-bottom: 0pt; margin-top: 0pt;"><span style="font-family: Arial; font-size: 11pt; white-space: pre-wrap;">It’s hard to explain what happened in the week following this, but I spiraled. All the insecurities, frustrations, shame, questions, anger, longing, and sadness that I’ve felt in the past bubbled up inside of me again. I really love my life, but suddenly wishing things were different brought up all these feelings that I don’t usually feel anymore. And it crushed me. </span></p><br /><p dir="ltr" style="line-height: 1.38; margin-bottom: 0pt; margin-top: 0pt;"><span style="font-family: Arial; font-size: 11pt; font-variant-east-asian: normal; font-variant-ligatures: normal; font-variant-position: normal; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;"><table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="float: left; margin-right: 1em; text-align: left;"><tbody><tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEizqzm8KqzfgVt-96hmG4WyYn5IUmnpCgW2HanW9-UsYpRqfB0oYjT9Ml15ICmdjqnUMY7lhOHUJ9MIw0PBeozgznnS_2YtDhq825KZA2JkJLEAc2leNSGOaXwL5A9gONkHfUayejCEt_lj5v8FSuLwIXrLfyhqRlZzCCcKDAfpPEYvRR24HumLLgePiQ/s3088/B4558BE3-E3FB-4C92-AC5D-4116117F4BB8.heic" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" data-original-height="3088" data-original-width="2316" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEizqzm8KqzfgVt-96hmG4WyYn5IUmnpCgW2HanW9-UsYpRqfB0oYjT9Ml15ICmdjqnUMY7lhOHUJ9MIw0PBeozgznnS_2YtDhq825KZA2JkJLEAc2leNSGOaXwL5A9gONkHfUayejCEt_lj5v8FSuLwIXrLfyhqRlZzCCcKDAfpPEYvRR24HumLLgePiQ/s320/B4558BE3-E3FB-4C92-AC5D-4116117F4BB8.heic" width="240" /></a></td></tr><tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Mark and I at Temple Square</td></tr></tbody></table></span></p><p dir="ltr" style="line-height: 1.38; margin-bottom: 0pt; margin-top: 0pt;"><span style="font-family: Arial; font-size: 11pt; font-variant-east-asian: normal; font-variant-ligatures: normal; font-variant-position: normal; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;">Mark shared with me the imagery in Exodus 17 when Moses struck a rock and it broke open and water flowed out. I felt a bit like that rock. Violently struck so that water could flow out. And what was that water for me? It was remembering what it was like to yearn for a partner. It was remembering what it was like to want to kiss someone. My goodness, it had been so long since I’d actually wanted to kiss someone. Somehow in all the years since I’d really liked someone, I’d forgotten what all of that felt like. And I realized how dismissive I’d been of Charlie when he started dating Ryan. I had forgotten what it was like to have to make that choice between following rules and building a romantic relationship. A little extra bit of compassion flowed out of me because of this crushing experience. </span></p><p dir="ltr" style="line-height: 1.38; margin-bottom: 0pt; margin-top: 0pt;"><span style="font-family: Arial; font-size: 11pt; white-space: pre-wrap;"><br /></span></p><p dir="ltr" style="line-height: 1.38; margin-bottom: 0pt; margin-top: 0pt;"><span style="font-family: Arial; font-size: 11pt; white-space: pre-wrap;">I’m sharing all of this just to let people into my life a bit. I want people to see what wrestling with all this complexity is like for me. And I imagine after reading all this you might be having some reactions. Can I guess how you’re reacting so that you don’t have to write it in a comment or email it to me later? Does this sound accurate: “Ben, this is so tragic and ridiculous. Mark is so cute and so cool and he obviously likes you. Just leave BYU and date him. You deserve that.” I tried to write that in a nice way, but you might be feeling angry, or hurt, or frustrated with my choices. Okay, here’s another reaction: “Ben, you are a child of God and He loves you! Don’t let Satan distract you from staying on the covenant path. He’s got you. Stay close to Him. I’m rooting for you.” Aww! Thank you! That is super kind! </span></p><br /><p dir="ltr" style="line-height: 1.38; margin-bottom: 0pt; margin-top: 0pt;"><span style="font-family: Arial; font-size: 11pt; font-variant-east-asian: normal; font-variant-ligatures: normal; font-variant-position: normal; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;">I share these imagined reactions because I realize that my life sits precariously in the middle ground between very strongly held beliefs and that few people are pleased with my life choices. But I’m just doing my best to live my values and follow the guidance I receive from God. And although life is usually beautiful and wonderful, it’s also sometimes sad and messy. Thank you for allowing me the space to share those four adjectives with you in this post. </span></p><p dir="ltr" style="line-height: 1.38; margin-bottom: 0pt; margin-top: 0pt;"><span style="font-family: Arial; font-size: 11pt; white-space: pre-wrap;"><br /></span></p><p dir="ltr" style="line-height: 1.38; margin-bottom: 0pt; margin-top: 0pt;"><span style="font-family: Arial; font-size: 11pt; white-space: pre-wrap;">I don’t envision a future in which I would make choices that would separate me from the Church or BYU. I really do love the path my life is on. But man, sometimes that path is rocky and making choices can really suck. And sometimes I wish I didn’t have to choose between the things I want. A recent episode of “Questions from the Closet” was titled, <a href="https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=Xbc_gj7tKQE&t=1063s">“What happens when you fall in love?”</a> In the episode Charlie talked about the two of us giving a fireside and being asked that exact question. It threw him off and he didn’t know what to say. But I remember exactly what I said: “When you fall in love you have to make a choice.” I’d forgotten how hard that choice can be. And now that the number of same-sex romances I've had has gone from one and quarter to one and a half, I remember a little bit better. </span></p><p dir="ltr" style="line-height: 1.38; margin-bottom: 0pt; margin-top: 0pt;"><span style="font-family: Arial; font-size: 11pt; font-variant-east-asian: normal; font-variant-ligatures: normal; font-variant-position: normal; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;"><br /></span></p><p dir="ltr" style="line-height: 1.38; margin-bottom: 0pt; margin-top: 0pt;"><span style="font-family: Arial; font-size: 11pt; font-variant-east-asian: normal; font-variant-ligatures: normal; font-variant-position: normal; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;">As I write this it’s the Saturday before Easter. Today I was reminded of a passage in </span><span style="font-family: Arial; font-size: 11pt; font-style: italic; font-variant-east-asian: normal; font-variant-ligatures: normal; font-variant-position: normal; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;">Jacob: A Brief Theological Introduction </span><span style="font-family: Arial; font-size: 11pt; font-variant-east-asian: normal; font-variant-ligatures: normal; font-variant-position: normal; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;">by Deidre Green: “Some Christian theologians assert that believers often move too quickly from the crucifixion to the resurrection, without adequately appreciating all that can be gleaned by reflecting upon the absence and uncertainty of what lies between Good Friday and Easter Sunday: the in-between symbolized by Holy Saturday. By viewing the duration of Christ’s death, we witness and embrace loss that has not yet found resolution” (p. 24). Absence, uncertainty, and loss describe pretty well how I’ve been feeling. But as I sit in this space between two things, my own Holy Saturday, I am gleaning. And trusting in resolution. </span></p><p dir="ltr" style="line-height: 1.38; margin-bottom: 0pt; margin-top: 0pt;"><table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><tbody><tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgXlc2QxLvsopXSl-qf7zj9viKK43OB4P0em9H4epgT25RRlPoXx8TT2MJj_XpNpcYwbiLQj5oOsElFIfNwTuCd45boQs0NcoH8hNtuXUz9-K489K7ZXneiSv9Y1qf_TtA0r0GfGtsblwbpVqwgrUQ0_Lv3fFCyRMasXvYwzJI09yyVfJnI7sXEqmNn4w/s4032/7933EEFF-6EB5-4314-BD1B-4E1A04083EE2_1_201_a.heic" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" data-original-height="4032" data-original-width="3024" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgXlc2QxLvsopXSl-qf7zj9viKK43OB4P0em9H4epgT25RRlPoXx8TT2MJj_XpNpcYwbiLQj5oOsElFIfNwTuCd45boQs0NcoH8hNtuXUz9-K489K7ZXneiSv9Y1qf_TtA0r0GfGtsblwbpVqwgrUQ0_Lv3fFCyRMasXvYwzJI09yyVfJnI7sXEqmNn4w/s320/7933EEFF-6EB5-4314-BD1B-4E1A04083EE2_1_201_a.heic" width="240" /></a></td></tr><tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">My church building on Easter Sunday</td></tr></tbody></table><br /><span style="font-family: Arial; font-size: 11pt; font-variant-east-asian: normal; font-variant-ligatures: normal; font-variant-position: normal; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;"><br /></span></p></span><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><br /></div><br /><br /><br />Benhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/04151204932376899998noreply@blogger.com45tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7565469030539917833.post-76249025095715330682022-01-19T16:34:00.001-08:002022-01-20T08:08:23.596-08:00I'd Rather Not Be Single<p><span style="font-family: arial;"><span style="font-size: medium;">On December 8, 2021 Tom Christofferson posted on Facebook that he was going to begin dating men while maintaining the same dating standards that heterosexual Latter-day Saint couples follow. A number of my straight friends heard this news and asked me, “Why would he date if he knew he couldn’t get married? That doesn’t make any sense.” Then on January 15, 2022 David Archuleta posted a 50 minute video on Instagram explaining the conflict he feels as an LGBT Latter-day Saint. I listened to the whole thing. One thing he said multiple times is, “I don’t want a partner so I can have sex. I want someone to share my life with. This isn’t about sex.” That really resonated with me. </span></span></p><p><span style="font-family: arial;"><span style="font-size: medium;">I’m not advocating for any specific relationships here. I’m really not trying to tell anyone what to do with their lives. I’m just going to explain why I want a partner and why I don’t have one. I’m often pointed to as a “single, celibate gay member of the Church” and I’d like to provide another window into what that’s like. </span></span></p><p><span style="font-family: arial;"><span style="font-size: medium;">In December 2013 Jordan and I started texting a lot. I wasn’t dating men or looking for a relationship with a man, we just met and clicked super well. It all just sort of happened. At the time I hadn’t come out to him and he hadn’t come out to me. In my mind this was just a friendship. One day he texted me that he was going to a friend’s cabin and would be out of service for a whole day and not to miss him too much. I told him to have a good time and then missed him too much. <br /></span></span></p><p><span style="font-family: arial;"><span style="font-size: medium;">The next day my phone dinged more than a dozen times in a row. The first message was from Jordan: “Since I can’t text you while I’m here, I’m going to write out all the things I want to text you and send them when I get service.” Then I read through multiple hilarious texts and I felt a feeling inside of me that I had never felt with any of the women I had dated. I felt loved and wanted and it was awesome. Jordan was thinking about me and wishing I was with him. It felt like I was his person and I liked being his person. </span></span></p><p></p><table cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="float: right;"><tbody><tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/a/AVvXsEiEDNZAgS1-hvUBq7ze0RGDnser2wQIHj2wX3fs-H8E9FZd1DW0MwSOxfZHwSDReACt0KdKYJeVKNgdZGemvf2Aho8PowmEGQeNHfnkeJjG25EAMVE2hJS98rgu8WX3FI7isWoK4t_kl3wTKuNOJRJMR8l8EvZXXAzNFK59mM3V5O9S6mxhiMHmfavoyQ=s1389" style="clear: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1389" data-original-width="1125" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/a/AVvXsEiEDNZAgS1-hvUBq7ze0RGDnser2wQIHj2wX3fs-H8E9FZd1DW0MwSOxfZHwSDReACt0KdKYJeVKNgdZGemvf2Aho8PowmEGQeNHfnkeJjG25EAMVE2hJS98rgu8WX3FI7isWoK4t_kl3wTKuNOJRJMR8l8EvZXXAzNFK59mM3V5O9S6mxhiMHmfavoyQ=s320" width="259" /></a></td></tr><tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Jordan's Skype face<br /></td></tr></tbody></table><span style="font-family: arial;"><span style="font-size: medium;">I told my friends about Jordan and some of them were super supportive that I liked this guy who liked me back. One friend asked me, “So what is your endgame with Jordan?” I replied, “I don’t know, but I’m so much happier with him in my life.” Even though we lived in different states we talked every day on the phone or Skype and the consistency of that relationship and the regular love I felt was really awesome. Things with Jordan did not work out and I wrote a whole chapter about it in <a href="https://deseretbook.com/p/walk-in-my-shoes-questions-im-often-asked-as-a-gay-latterday-saint?queryID=9973a4a3ebf3865b0671f4184bf9a794&variant_id=190022-paperback">my book</a> if you want the details. But for a time I felt like the kind of relationship I had been longing for might actually be possible. </span></span><p></p><p><span style="font-family: arial;"><span style="font-size: medium;">Two and a half years after things with Jordan ended the desire I had to have a partner still hadn’t gone away. There was this guy I had a crush on that I really wanted to ask out. He was handsome, funny, successful, a homeowner, all the things that typically make someone attractive. So 32 year old me set up a meeting with my bishop to ask about platonically dating guys. Not dating seeking to get married, but dating for companionship. This was in Arizona so the BYU Honor Code wasn’t on either of our minds. I wrote the following in my journal about the meeting with my bishop: “His basic response was, ‘You marry who you date.’ By that he meant that I shouldn’t date because it could lead to a same-sex marriage. This was the first time a church leader hasn’t encouraged me to marry a woman in this kind of setting, but instead said very clearly that I should stay single. It hurt more than I was expecting. I guess I shouldn’t have expected him to say anything different, but it still hurt.” A few sentences later I wrote: “Is staying [in the Church] even a viable option? Yes, it is, but it super sucks sometimes.” I decided not to date and never even told this guy I had a crush on him (although if he reads this he might figure it out). </span></span></p><p><span style="font-family: arial;"><span style="font-size: medium;">Later I was back at BYU as a student where I knew same-sex dating was prohibited and I 100% followed that rule. If I’m anything, I’m a rule follower. I had been away from BYU for six years and had had significant things happen in the interim that had helped me mature as a person. When I was a younger, closeted BYU student I would look at couples holding hands on campus and be mad at them. Maybe <i>hurt </i>is a better word. I was jealous that they could pursue the relationships they wanted and I wasn’t allowed that same opportunity. Now in my 30s I would see these young couples on campus and think, <i>I hope you don’t take for granted how lucky you are</i>. </span></span></p><p><span style="font-family: arial;"><span style="font-size: medium;">So I couldn't marry a man and I couldn’t date a man, but I also had tried very unsuccessfully to marry a woman and I didn’t want to be alone forever so what options did I have left for companionship? I decided I would settle for just a best friend that would also function like a partner. We wouldn’t date, but we’d also do everything together and, like, buy a house together or something. How is that different from dating? I don’t know, but this is what my brain was figuring out. And then it worked! I found the guy. He just showed up in my ward one day. He was also a BYU student, seemed to have similar life goals, I thought he was cute and cool, and by some miracle he thought I was cute and cool, too! </span></span></p><p><span style="font-family: arial;"><span style="font-size: medium;"></span></span></p><table cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="float: left; margin-right: 1em; text-align: left;"><tbody><tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/a/AVvXsEh72C9AnEylglV1idAZQ_HnE-ojGCGiU82OvsJhP5K6F2biXXftCzoivz8roQx1ThQ2f51ut3GwPQJ0F-ZqDNEXRrVz4W-D2cR9b4UL0St6dkiJ1MM3YunwziSjnjSKlNoFR6zJ4NujdGs01v0OiAdHm-rm6SJGZiS857Nsb-bmsbGo8_hGTgXr2kd6Bg=s4032" style="clear: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" data-original-height="3024" data-original-width="4032" height="240" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/a/AVvXsEh72C9AnEylglV1idAZQ_HnE-ojGCGiU82OvsJhP5K6F2biXXftCzoivz8roQx1ThQ2f51ut3GwPQJ0F-ZqDNEXRrVz4W-D2cR9b4UL0St6dkiJ1MM3YunwziSjnjSKlNoFR6zJ4NujdGs01v0OiAdHm-rm6SJGZiS857Nsb-bmsbGo8_hGTgXr2kd6Bg=s320" width="320" /></a></td></tr><tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">This is my backyard, but you get the idea<br /></td></tr></tbody></table><span style="font-family: arial;"><span style="font-size: medium;">About two weeks after we met we were sitting on my porch talking. If you haven’t seen my porch, it is gorgeous. Picture white lights wrapped around a railing covered in ivy on a quiet street with mature trees all around. I remember sitting with this guy on the porch talking on a warm September night and thinking, <i>This is the life I want. I just want us to be able to sit together every day and talk about life</i>. Part of me also thought that maybe God was blessing me with the kind of relationship I wanted because I’d been trying so hard for so long to be good. But it didn’t last. About a week later this guy got to know me better and quickly lost interest. We stayed friends, but the partnership I was hoping for didn’t happen. I was 34. <br /></span></span><p></p><p><span style="font-family: arial;"><span style="font-size: medium;">Now I’m 37 going on 38 and I’m still partnerless. I have a super full life that I really love and I’m genuinely happy. But the desire to have a partner has never gone away nor do I expect it to. So what is a gay Latter-day Saint to do who wants companionship in his life but who can’t marry a woman and can’t date or marry a man? Many (and I mean <i>many</i>) Church leaders and members have counseled me to marry a woman and just not have a sexual relationship. “Marriage is about more than sex,” they say, “so you can get married to a woman and not have sex.” I agree with David Archuleta that I’m not seeking a partnership for sex. But these same people when I say that I’d be okay with a nonsexual, but committed relationship to a man are suddenly horrified at the very thought of two men loving each other. It’s like they can’t quite understand what it means for me to be gay. </span></span></p><p><span style="font-family: arial;"><span style="font-size: medium;">Here’s a brief paragraph from <a href="https://deseretbook.com/p/walk-in-my-shoes-questions-im-often-asked-as-a-gay-latterday-saint?queryID=9973a4a3ebf3865b0671f4184bf9a794&variant_id=190022-paperback">my book</a> that bears repeating: “In recent years I’ve started to say ‘orientation’ more than ‘sexual orienation.’ Yes, I am sexually attracted to men and not to women, but it’s about so much more than that. I’m also emotionally oriented towards men, and romantically oriented towards men, and intellectually oriented towards men, and even spiritually oriented towards men. All the parts of me that yearn for connection are directed towards men. And I don’t feel that same orientation towards women. I think I’d make a great husband, but man, it would be hard if I weren't physically, emotionally, romantically, intellectually, or spiritually attracted to my wife. Hard for me, but perhaps even harder for her if she were physically, emotionally, romantically, intellectually, and spiritually attracted to me and knew that those feelings were not reciprocated.” The quote is on page 48 (it felt presumptuous to cite myself in APA style in a blog post). </span></span></p><p><span style="font-family: arial;"><span style="font-size: medium;">I mean it when I say that the desire for a partner has never gone away. In the fall of 2019 I was praying and telling God about my desire to have a partner and in response I felt prompted to write a book. When I finished the first draft of the book in January 2020 I again prayed about my longing for a partner and then felt prompted to start the “<a href="https://questionsfromthecloset.com/">Questions from the Closet</a>” podcast. Once that was up and running I again prayed about a partner in April 2020 and felt inspired to start a diversity class at BYU. A year into that I yet again prayed for a partner and felt inspiration to plan the BYU Belong concert. When that was over I decided that if I prayed for a partner again God was just going to give me more to do. </span></span></p><p><span style="font-family: arial;"><span style="font-size: medium;">I know I am supposed to be single now. I know that. I know that just like I know that the Book of Mormon is true and that I have Heavenly Parents who love me. Why am I supposed to be single? I don’t super know, but my hunch is that right now I’m not meant to have a me-focused life. Not having a partner means I have so much time to give to others which is why I so freely give my time to those who ask for it. Perhaps having a partner would get in the way of the work I feel called to do to build Zion. And maybe some day the purpose of my life will shift from this big, outward focused life to one that is more about me. I don’t know. But I know I’m living my best life right now. <br /></span></span></p><p><span style="font-family: arial;"><span style="font-size: medium;"></span></span></p><table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="float: right; margin-left: 1em; text-align: right;"><tbody><tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/a/AVvXsEjO8OWgGrEQaHENxQ0D7_g9c2-zMeP7WXkO0rv5Ua4VNRDRnwSCAUe2V0sxBSozEDStpTdtvpaq11gr5-fWMbxOx7XX--PkZ6siZ_BZ3ybaZjjfqAjgfQpp2zg_yT83tXoXN4882-vFoXHdOErUJBsK3i_xMVj1kHplCiFFKF8AbkHqN6Iy_3Jx-fc6Lg=s4032" style="clear: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" data-original-height="4032" data-original-width="2268" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/a/AVvXsEjO8OWgGrEQaHENxQ0D7_g9c2-zMeP7WXkO0rv5Ua4VNRDRnwSCAUe2V0sxBSozEDStpTdtvpaq11gr5-fWMbxOx7XX--PkZ6siZ_BZ3ybaZjjfqAjgfQpp2zg_yT83tXoXN4882-vFoXHdOErUJBsK3i_xMVj1kHplCiFFKF8AbkHqN6Iy_3Jx-fc6Lg=w180-h320" width="180" /></a></td></tr><tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Charlotte and I<br /></td></tr></tbody></table><span style="font-family: arial;"><span style="font-size: medium;">So what do I do with these very natural longings I have for partnership? I try to look for the ways that God has compensated for the things I lack. For the last three years I’ve lived with Charlotte. She’s 50 years older than me and one of the most important people in my life. Every day I come home and she asks me if I’ve had dinner. More often than not I already have, but if I haven’t she whips something up for me. Then we sit and talk about our days. She’ll tell me stories of her husband and their mission in Samoa, I’ll talk about some insightful comment a student of mine made that day, she’ll tease me and I’ll tease her, then we’ll open up the scriptures and do the <i>Come, Follow Me</i> reading for the week. And every day I have someone to come home to. Charlotte isn’t my partner, but she’s one of my best friends. And God sent us to each other so we wouldn’t have to do this part of our lives alone. And that’s pretty cool. If God is the author of this chapter of my life, and I believe He is, then it is a sacred time filled with purpose and tailored for me. <br /></span></span><p></p><p><span style="font-family: arial;"><span style="font-size: medium;">So if you’re confused about why Tom would start dating men, or why David is considering pursuing marriage to a man, or why I tried to find a platonic best friend, consider the times you’ve been loved by a partner. What was it like to have someone you could count on? What was it like to have someone who would be there for you? What was it like to think about tomorrow and not wonder if you were going to have someone to spend it with? What does that kind of stability feel like? From the brief times I’ve had it it feels pretty good. </span></span></p><p><span style="font-family: arial;"><span style="font-size: medium;">Now imagine that you were told that you couldn’t have the kind of partnership you wanted. You weren’t even allowed to try for it. What kind of mental gymnastics and rationalizations would you entertain to just have something similar to what you were yearning for? </span></span></p><p><span style="font-family: arial;"><span style="font-size: medium;">Remember that guy from a few paragraphs ago that lost interest in me when he got to know me better? Well, I shared this post with him to make sure it was okay to share that story and he sent me this insightful comment: “A car needs gasoline to run, but it also needs five other liquids to work (oil, transmission fluid, etc.). Just because my gas tank (or friendship) tank is full doesn’t mean that my car can run. We each have spiritual needs, romantic needs, physical needs, etc. And it really hurts when people metaphorically tell us, ‘You have a full tank of gas. That’s enough.’ Well, it isn’t. Having a person, a special one makes such a difference. A shocking difference! And it’s not about sex. It’s about having a person who consistently and genuinely cares about being there and listening to the things that don’t really matter but that matter very much.” </span></span></p><p><span style="font-family: arial;"><span style="font-size: medium;">I’m not lonely. I’m really not. I have a wide breadth of friendships that are super important to me. But what I’m lacking is that one, deep intimate relationship. It’s odd that life can be so full and still feel incomplete at times.
I know Tom well and I love him dearly. He’s been a great mentor, friend, and support to me. And I honor his agency to take the path that feels right to him. I don’t know David much at all, but I’m sure that if I did I’d love him as much as I love Tom. Two very good men who are striving to make the right choices. And if you want to add me to that number, you have three men who are trying their best to do what is right and who are making different choices. I have not chosen to date men, but I completely understand why they have.
</span></span></p>Benhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/04151204932376899998noreply@blogger.com38tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7565469030539917833.post-89185856752296969042022-01-12T15:19:00.024-08:002022-01-12T15:42:09.633-08:00The Man in the Nursing Home<p><span style="font-size: medium;"></span></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><span style="font-size: medium;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/a/AVvXsEjUEjv-t8Bv72IbP-A_y4tBpHRMa1j2EQvfyY0-062o-9AldB4gEI-ttyQYvBMXUFcvmdUd1yFkZ58tJr9OYZ0saimGbnUvIpd1FPDbj87t_kpD5Egd7n2s6Tb46eDW8Nw6MwwhUYPBGGDQ9uxpKmOG2I19z1nSoGhvCX0gUGpkf4DNtmdUbGvHodJUBg=s4032" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="3024" data-original-width="4032" height="240" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/a/AVvXsEjUEjv-t8Bv72IbP-A_y4tBpHRMa1j2EQvfyY0-062o-9AldB4gEI-ttyQYvBMXUFcvmdUd1yFkZ58tJr9OYZ0saimGbnUvIpd1FPDbj87t_kpD5Egd7n2s6Tb46eDW8Nw6MwwhUYPBGGDQ9uxpKmOG2I19z1nSoGhvCX0gUGpkf4DNtmdUbGvHodJUBg=s320" width="320" /></a></span></div><p></p><p><span style="font-size: medium;">I share this story with Fred’s permission. <br /><br />This past summer a bishop contacted me and asked if I’d be willing to visit a member of his ward who lived in a nursing home. He explained that this man, who I’ll call Fred, was 70 years old, had never married, and was gay. Fred had read my book and was shocked and intrigued to learn that there were active members of The Church of Jesus Christ of Latter-day Saints who are also openly gay. I was thrilled he wanted to talk. <br /><br />The bishop and I walked down a long hallway greeted by multiple nurses. I reminded myself that I would be used to the smell of the facility soon. We entered Fred’s room that he shared with another resident who watched TV the entire time we were there. Fred asked me if I would pull over the curtain separating the two halves of the room to give us some privacy. He then took my hand into his small, feeble hand and said he was glad I had come because he felt like he already knew me. I sat down and Fred said, “I’d like to tell you my story and then ask you a few questions.” I replied, “It would be an honor to hear your story.” <br /> <br />Fred laid in his bed for the entire visit because sitting up was painful for him. As he shared his story he shifted from lying on his back to lying on his side trying to get comfortable. He told me that when he was young he remembered hearing his brother use a homophobic slur. Fred knew that the word applied to him and believed that his attractions made him a bad person. He also knew that no one else could ever know he was attracted to guys. Even with this fear, as a teen he shared his feelings with his parents who were loving and kind. Later, he received his patriarchal blessing which went into great detail about his future wife and their marriage, something that never came to pass. He wondered if he had done something wrong because the blessings promised to him didn’t materialize. The pain in him was palpable as he shared his life story. I leaned forward in my chair listening intently to his story. I tried my best to just listen and be a receptacle for his pain. <br /><br />Fred went on to share the shame and self-hatred he endured for years because of his orientation. He went to conversion therapy trying to change his attractions and fix whatever was broken inside of him. Life would be good, he felt, if he could figure out his orientation. He got emotional multiple times as he shared his love of God, his gratitude for the Savior, and his belief in The Church of Jesus Christ of Latter-day Saints. Then he said he had one question for me: “Will I be gay in the next life?” <br /><br />I sat up straight in my chair as I gathered my thoughts. I didn’t know what to say. I wasn’t sure if it would be more comforting for him to believe that he would be gay in the next life or that death would change his orientation. So I just talked about faith. I explained that I knew and understood very little about the next life, but that I trusted that God would prepare a future for me that I would love and thrive in. I then quoted Doctrine and Covenants 58:3: “Ye cannot behold with your natural eyes, for the present time, the design of your God concerning those things which shall come hereafter, and the glory which shall follow after much tribulation.” <br /><br />Fred started to cry. I asked him where this emotion was coming from and he said, “You just quoted one of my favorite scriptures. My life has been full of tribulation, but I know that God will be merciful and kind to me.” Then he pause, his head nestled in his pillow and his eyes towards the ceiling, and said, “And I hope I’ll be gay in the next life. I don’t want this part of me to change.” I was stunned. Fred didn’t want his orientation to be changed. Fred who spent years trying to change. Fred who still hasn’t told his siblings he’s gay. Fred who experienced years of depression and anxiety rooted in his failure to be who he was told to be. Fred didn’t want his orientation to change. </span></p><table cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="float: right;"><tbody><tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/a/AVvXsEjmaWdPkZ4e38cySSLAIEip5BCqEDoFyk6ApiwPhb2F5mUu9Y_UcSMKOWFT2sAJ-IGx7nPSkVTSpWWsUqE5J4AUQew09Riq5cZ90ReLOahUbNa8U-0LDo0bvN3B45tutvu5_rSXXvNsTlNLapGcCHX7oNhISdibaGEE-Xjt4jPuABVVP0oidDQ65GQJkA=s1735" style="clear: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1735" data-original-width="1125" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/a/AVvXsEjmaWdPkZ4e38cySSLAIEip5BCqEDoFyk6ApiwPhb2F5mUu9Y_UcSMKOWFT2sAJ-IGx7nPSkVTSpWWsUqE5J4AUQew09Riq5cZ90ReLOahUbNa8U-0LDo0bvN3B45tutvu5_rSXXvNsTlNLapGcCHX7oNhISdibaGEE-Xjt4jPuABVVP0oidDQ65GQJkA=s320" width="207" /></a></td></tr><tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"><span style="font-size: xx-small;">PC: Jeremy Wiegand</span><br /></td></tr></tbody></table><span style="font-size: medium;">It was Sunday so the bishop and I administered the sacrament to Fred. I knelt on the linoleum, broke a cracker in half, and read the sacrament prayer out loud. As I read the prayer and blessed the cracker I got lost in the words. I was reading them and pondering them at the same time, thinking of the conversation we had just had. Here was Fred eating a broken cracker as a witness that he would remember God. Even with a TV on across the room, I felt the sacredness of this moment. I had heard Fred testify that something he thought was bad might in fact be a gift he wanted to keep. A gift that had brought him closer to God. <br /><br />This experience reminded me of a quote from the 1971 movie <i>They Might Be Giants</i>: “[Don Quixote] thought that every windmill was a giant. That's insane… All the best minds used to think the world was flat. But what if it isn't? It might be round. And bread mold might be medicine. If we never looked at things and thought of what might be, why we'd all still be out there in the tall grass with the apes.” What if being gay is a gift and not a curse? What if Fred allowed his siblings to see this part of him and it led them to love him more? What if this thing that he had hated and loathed for years was the thing that brought him closer to God? Fred spent decades trying to change, and now his orientation was a treasured part of him.<br /><br /><br /></span><p></p>Benhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/04151204932376899998noreply@blogger.com4tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7565469030539917833.post-9418379490595147632021-02-17T11:45:00.001-08:002021-02-17T11:49:25.142-08:00Sometimes People Surprise You<p><span face="Calibri, sans-serif"></span></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><br /></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://1.bp.blogspot.com/-QaPh_U69S5I/YC1uy2tMbEI/AAAAAAAAB4c/2nZpOUpiVN0fS11akQdhoYjtVlCulBWlwCLcBGAsYHQ/s2048/431F9C53-34A3-40E4-A1D5-A81C4D3C248D.heic" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="2048" data-original-width="1536" height="320" src="https://1.bp.blogspot.com/-QaPh_U69S5I/YC1uy2tMbEI/AAAAAAAAB4c/2nZpOUpiVN0fS11akQdhoYjtVlCulBWlwCLcBGAsYHQ/s320/431F9C53-34A3-40E4-A1D5-A81C4D3C248D.heic" /></a></div><br />On Monday, February 8<sup style="font-family: Calibri, sans-serif;">th</sup><span face="Calibri, sans-serif"> </span><span face="Calibri, sans-serif">my sister picked up our mom and drove her from her home of 40+ years to her new home at an assisted living facility. I traveled home to be with my dad for this event because I didn’t want him to be alone. That morning I sat on the couch with my mom and held her hand, knowing that in a few hours she’d be leaving. I told her she was moving and she sighed and said, “Oh dear. I just always want to be with you.” Before my sister drove her away, my dad said he needed a minute to cry. So he sat on his bed and wept. Mom wandered in to comfort him and said, “It’s going to be okay. I just always want to be with you.” This all happened while I was teaching a class online. My sister had invited me to go with her to the assisted living place, but I had declined. While I was teaching I turned my head to look out the window and saw them pull away. Then I looked back at 25 tiny boxes of faces on my laptop screen and continued to teach my class, pretending that life was the same as it had always been.</span><p></p><p><span face="Calibri, sans-serif">My dad doesn’t fly. He has really bad tinnitus--ringing in his ears--and he worries that flying could make something already unbearable even worse. I don’t blame him. I remember the moment I knew that my dad would never fly again. He had purchased tickets to come to my PhD graduation in Tucson in 2017. The flights were already paid for, but he very apologetically backed out a few days before the trip. If my dad wouldn’t fly to my graduation using tickets he’d already bought, I couldn’t imagine something he would be willing to fly for (he did drive to all my other graduations, of which there have been far too many). </span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: Calibri, sans-serif; margin: 0in 0in 0.0001pt;">To help him adjust to living without my mom, I decided to take my dad to Palm Springs, CA to spend some time with his sister and brother-in-law and be in the sun. He hadn’t been on a vacation since my mom was diagnosed five years ago and he became her primary caregiver. The trip meant 20+ hours of driving each way. I was happy to make the drive with him. We were going to start the trip Tuesday afternoon after I finished work. Monday night my dad’s friend Sabrina came over for her weekly hangout with him. As they talked I looked up flights to Palm Springs from Seattle just for fun and they were $58 each way. I was not expecting them to be so cheap, especially last minute. I mentioned this to my dad and he seemed to almost consider the idea. Sabrina thought flying would be a good idea. I didn’t want to stress him out on an already tough day, so I dropped the idea of flying. </p><table cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="float: left;"><tbody><tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://1.bp.blogspot.com/-QEGpne4vmTo/YC1wP6Se0HI/AAAAAAAAB48/iKUC2VFlTGEuZ3JIz8S6o18DShWWdCVZQCLcBGAsYHQ/s2048/EAFB3B55-BF7A-4F6C-BB9B-388A674A18F6.heic" style="clear: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" data-original-height="2048" data-original-width="1536" height="320" src="https://1.bp.blogspot.com/-QEGpne4vmTo/YC1wP6Se0HI/AAAAAAAAB48/iKUC2VFlTGEuZ3JIz8S6o18DShWWdCVZQCLcBGAsYHQ/s320/EAFB3B55-BF7A-4F6C-BB9B-388A674A18F6.heic" /></a></td></tr><tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Holding hands with my sister</td></tr></tbody></table><p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: Calibri, sans-serif; margin: 0in 0in 0.0001pt;"><br /></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: Calibri, sans-serif; margin: 0in 0in 0.0001pt;">The next morning I was thinking about the long drive across the width of the country and I really didn’t want to do it. I looked up the flights again and they were still $58. I approached my dad and said I thought we should fly. He slammed his fist on the table and said enthusiastically, “Let’s do it!” I checked in with him a few more times after he had some time to think just to make sure he was actually willing to fly and then bought the tickets. </p><p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: Calibri, sans-serif; margin: 0in 0in 0.0001pt;"><br /></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: Calibri, sans-serif; margin: 0in 0in 0.0001pt;">I was worried he was going to back out and wasn’t 100% sure he was going to go through with it until we were on the plane. He said he was nervous and he was. I texted all my siblings and asked them to pray for him. I gave my dad the window seat because he hadn’t been on a plane in nine years and it was a rare sunny day in Seattle so there would be a lot to see as we took off. I wrote in my journal Tuesday night: “When we were flying I looked at him looking out the window and started to get emotional. It felt like I was watching him get his freedom back. He’s courageous. When we landed I asked how his ears were doing. He got emotional and said, ‘I feel good. Lots of people prayed for me and it worked.’” On our layover in Oakland he kept saying, “Now that I can fly, I can go anywhere in the world.” If you had told me on Monday morning that my dad would get on plane on Wednesday, I would have said you were crazy. And yet it happened. </p><p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: Calibri, sans-serif; margin: 0in 0in 0.0001pt;"><br /></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: Calibri, sans-serif; margin: 0in 0in 0.0001pt;">The trip to Palm Springs wasn’t as restful as we had hoped. There were a few snags with the assisted living place that stretched our already depleted emotional reserves. But dad was here with family and I think that really helped. I heard him say multiple times, “I hope she’s alright. I hope she’s happy. I hope she’s not lonely.” He just loves her so much and wants the best for her. We've gotten multiple updates from my brothers that she is doing well and thriving in her new home. </p><p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: Calibri, sans-serif; margin: 0in 0in 0.0001pt;"><o:p></o:p></p><table cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="float: right;"><tbody><tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://1.bp.blogspot.com/-MkYsrOCeQpk/YC1vLeUQNhI/AAAAAAAAB4o/f3a0nYcJmhQ-ft4XazuUWe9sB8uuB4wsgCLcBGAsYHQ/s2048/59C2C615-B8E4-46A4-9431-F74A5CBE2DA4.heic" style="clear: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" data-original-height="2048" data-original-width="1536" height="320" src="https://1.bp.blogspot.com/-MkYsrOCeQpk/YC1vLeUQNhI/AAAAAAAAB4o/f3a0nYcJmhQ-ft4XazuUWe9sB8uuB4wsgCLcBGAsYHQ/s320/59C2C615-B8E4-46A4-9431-F74A5CBE2DA4.heic" /></a></td></tr><tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">He's even wiser than he looks</td></tr></tbody></table><p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: Calibri, sans-serif; margin: 0in 0in 0.0001pt;"><br /></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: Calibri, sans-serif; margin: 0in 0in 0.0001pt;">While in Palm Springs we took a day trip to Joshua Tree National Park. My dad loves the National Parks. More than once he said, “I can’t believe I’m actually here. It doesn’t feel real. I never thought I’d be here.” Charlie was passing through town randomly and spent the day with us at the park. He was doing his typically Charlie thing and taking tons of photos for Instagram. We watched him try to land a few flips, but never land them quite right. Right before his fourth attempted my dad shouted, “You got this, Charlie! This will be the one! You’re gonna land this one perfectly!” And that is most Buzz Schilaty thing he could have said. My dad encourages, he cheers, and he builds people. He’s mostly to blame for my overconfidence and my belief that I’m awesome and can change the world. Because that’s how he always talked to me. <o:p></o:p></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: Calibri, sans-serif; margin: 0in 0in 0.0001pt;"><o:p> </o:p></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: Calibri, sans-serif; margin: 0in 0in 0.0001pt;">Today we’re getting back on a plane. We’re flying back to Washington. Back to my dad’s new life living in a house all by himself. I’ll be there for a few more days to help ease him into his new normal and curb some of the pain of his loss. My heart broke for him this last week and I’ve also been so proud of him. I don’t know what the next years of his life will look like, and I’m going to try not to even guess, because I think he’s going to surprise me. <o:p></o:p></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: Calibri, sans-serif; margin: 0in 0in 0.0001pt;"><br /></p><table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><tbody><tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://1.bp.blogspot.com/-6HO9oPT0Ky0/YC1vnsQfWOI/AAAAAAAAB4w/NZtbAeHzri0SjYWCohbQBT363uDjTW_fACLcBGAsYHQ/s2048/EEC9CD9E-BBE4-49B2-B1EB-ADDA271EED7F.heic" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1536" data-original-width="2048" height="240" src="https://1.bp.blogspot.com/-6HO9oPT0Ky0/YC1vnsQfWOI/AAAAAAAAB4w/NZtbAeHzri0SjYWCohbQBT363uDjTW_fACLcBGAsYHQ/w320-h240/EEC9CD9E-BBE4-49B2-B1EB-ADDA271EED7F.heic" title="Me, Lindsay, dad, Marilyn, and Mike" width="320" /></a></td></tr><tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Me, Lindsay, dad, Marilyn, and Mike</td></tr></tbody></table><br /><p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: Calibri, sans-serif; margin: 0in 0in 0.0001pt;"><br /></p><table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><tbody><tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://1.bp.blogspot.com/-1ByuFVDocFc/YC1wfikyIrI/AAAAAAAAB5E/eE72ot3lA087lGAM5UjcRwYIsdFK6nVTwCLcBGAsYHQ/s2048/C92DF5B9-DA3B-4C1F-AF3D-EFE079362042.heic" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" data-original-height="2048" data-original-width="1536" height="320" src="https://1.bp.blogspot.com/-1ByuFVDocFc/YC1wfikyIrI/AAAAAAAAB5E/eE72ot3lA087lGAM5UjcRwYIsdFK6nVTwCLcBGAsYHQ/s320/C92DF5B9-DA3B-4C1F-AF3D-EFE079362042.heic" /></a></td></tr><tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">I can't do a flip, but I can barely click my heels</td></tr></tbody></table><br /><table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><tbody><tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://1.bp.blogspot.com/-nhMuvhfyfrY/YC1zK4gsWgI/AAAAAAAAB5Q/2VlEfWUDkRUEhWqnju4r2ooPypCBtkVcgCLcBGAsYHQ/s1936/IMG_413911.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1936" data-original-width="1452" height="320" src="https://1.bp.blogspot.com/-nhMuvhfyfrY/YC1zK4gsWgI/AAAAAAAAB5Q/2VlEfWUDkRUEhWqnju4r2ooPypCBtkVcgCLcBGAsYHQ/s320/IMG_413911.jpg" /></a></td></tr><tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Mom in her new place thrilled to be folding socks</td></tr></tbody></table><br />Benhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/04151204932376899998noreply@blogger.com13tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7565469030539917833.post-129816764638255712021-01-13T14:17:00.000-08:002021-01-13T14:17:02.059-08:00I Knew When to Come out<span style="font-size: small;">
</span><p class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-size: small;">For years I surrounded my secret in protective armor, afraid
of letting anyone else see what I was hiding. Would they hate me as much as I
hated myself? And yet at the same time I yearned to be vulnerable. I yearned to
be understood and to have someone to talk to. But being vulnerable was super
risky. Removing the metaphorical armor would leave me exposed to truly being
hurt. I was terrified of sharing my secret and then having nothing to deflect
the jabs and punches and strikes that I feared would come. No one could hurt me
more than a person that I had opened up to. </span></p><span style="font-size: small;">There is a very specific feeling I get when I know I'm
supposed to come out to someone. It’s hard to describe, but it's like a
nervous, courageous sort of feeling. There’s a stirring inside of me and my
heart pounds. It's not anxiety, but more like an invitation that comes from
inside of me. When this happens I need to decide if I’m going to trust this feeling or listen to my fear. </span><p class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-size: small;">I didn't feel prompted to share my orientation with anyone
until after my mission. I returned to BYU and dove into dating just like I was
supposed to. As I searched for an eternal companion the reality that I was gay
was at the forefront of my mind like never before. One night I was sitting in a
car with a good friend from my mission. He was telling me about some of his
life troubles and I felt this intense need to reciprocate his openness and tell
him I was attracted to men. But I was terrified and said nothing. Experiences
like this happened again and again. A friend would open up in a private setting
and I would feel this stirring inside of me that I would ignore because of
fear. </span></p><span style="font-size: small;">
</span><p class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-size: small;">I wanted to let people into what I was experiencing so
badly, but I couldn't because of fear. The Lord said to Joseph Smith, "But
with some I am not well pleased, for they will not open their mouths, but they
hide the talent which I have given unto them, because of the fear of man"
(D&C 60:2). Being gay clearly isn't a talent (but if it were I'd hope to
win some kind of prize), but I was hiding important experiences because I was
afraid. </span></p><span style="font-size: small;">
</span><p class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-size: small;">Even after I started coming out it was often lacked the courage to be vulnerable when I got that “it’s time to come out” feeling. I
would sometimes be so worried that I felt physically ill. I would hesitate and
not initially act on the prompting. But as I got more and more used to what the
Spirit was encouraging me to do, it got easier and I became more confident. So
when I got that feeling while teaching Elders Quorum I came out. When I got
that feeling during a 5th Sunday lesson at church I came out. When I was
meeting with my bishop for the first time and got that feeling I came out. And
every time I responded to that prompting something wonderful happened. Every
time there was some kind of tangible confirmation that coming out in that
setting was the right thing to do. Every time I felt uplifted and edified, and
so did those with whom I had shared. Quite a contrast from hiding in fear and
saying nothing. </span></p><span style="font-size: small;">
</span><table cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="float: right;"><tbody><tr><td style="text-align: center;"><span style="font-size: small;"><a href="https://1.bp.blogspot.com/-1x7UMPai904/X_9o40AvvtI/AAAAAAAAB3g/I1LVPiHYUbsMEwmyP04scCT2N3jayg7VwCLcBGAsYHQ/s2048/Temple%2Bworker.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1539" data-original-width="2048" height="240" src="https://1.bp.blogspot.com/-1x7UMPai904/X_9o40AvvtI/AAAAAAAAB3g/I1LVPiHYUbsMEwmyP04scCT2N3jayg7VwCLcBGAsYHQ/w320-h240/Temple%2Bworker.jpg" width="320" /></a></span></td></tr><tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"><span style="font-size: small;">Provo Utah Temple 2018<br /></span></td></tr></tbody></table><span style="font-size: small;">When I was 33 I was working as a temple worker in the Provo
Utah Temple. I was out publicly and anyone who knew me knew I was gay. But I
decided to not come out to my fellow temple workers. I didn't want to make
anyone feel uncomfortable and I didn't want anyone to say something unkind to
me in the temple. My logic told me that it would be easiest to just play
straight. One day I was talking with an older gentleman on my shift while we
were waiting to do an assignment. He asked me what I planned to do after I
graduated with my MSW. I told him that I hoped to work with LGBTQ clients and
their families. Right then we had to fulfill an assignment and he said sternly,
"Find me after. We need to talk." I immediately started to worry
about the lecture I was going to receive on the ills of homosexuality.
</span><p class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-size: small;">I found him later and we sat on a padded bench. He asked me
why I was interested in working with LGBTQ clients. The feeling I knew so well
stirred inside of me so without hesitating I told him I was gay. He then got
emotional and said, "My son is gay, too." We sat on that bench
talking for quite a while. When the conversation was over he thanked me
profusely for trusting him because he had needed someone to talk to that day.
His last words to me were: "Providence brought us together
today." </span></p><span style="font-size: small;">
</span><p class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-size: small;">This feeling came multiple times as I interacted with temple
workers on my shift. It led to beautiful conversations every single time. Even
though I had planned to be silent, I was frequently prompted to speak. My
coming out in those settings wasn't to get attention, or to prove a point, or
to increase LGBTQ visibility. I simply came out in the temple because I felt
prompted to do so. </span></p><span style="font-size: small;">
</span><p class="MsoNormal"><table cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="float: left;"><tbody><tr><td style="text-align: center;"><span style="font-size: small;"><a href="https://1.bp.blogspot.com/-vbPkdRkHVuY/X_9pQs7AAZI/AAAAAAAAB3s/bkIa18Fibdos2qdXcgi6kRxHiKhOEKzTwCLcBGAsYHQ/s2048/hugging%2BMitch.JPEG" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" data-original-height="2048" data-original-width="1536" height="320" src="https://1.bp.blogspot.com/-vbPkdRkHVuY/X_9pQs7AAZI/AAAAAAAAB3s/bkIa18Fibdos2qdXcgi6kRxHiKhOEKzTwCLcBGAsYHQ/s320/hugging%2BMitch.JPEG" /></a></span></td></tr><tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"><span style="font-size: small;">Mitch, the first person I came out to<br /></span></td></tr></tbody></table><span style="font-size: small;"><br />I for sure don't know what any other LGBTQ person should do.
But what I do know is that I missed a lot of opportunities to come out because
I was scared. I also know that waiting until I was 30 to come out publicly was
the right thing for me for a number of reasons. I came out on my blog at that
time because I had come to recognize when the Spirit was prompting me to speak. <br /></span></p><span style="font-size: small;">
</span><p class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-size: small;">I've heard a number of friends share similar stories of
learning to recognize a feeling that invites them to come out. I don't know
when the right time to come out is, but God does and He'll help us know.
Immense goodness has come into my life as I have followed the repeated promptings
to come out. When I hid because of fear, all the kindness that was offered to
me was also somewhat deflected by my protective armor. When I removed my armor and let myself
be seen, I finally felt the full embrace that my loved ones were offering me.
That was the experience God was inviting me to have. </span></p><span style="font-size: small;">
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<![endif]-->Benhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/04151204932376899998noreply@blogger.com3tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7565469030539917833.post-78480335925896531732020-11-10T17:25:00.000-08:002020-11-10T17:25:48.406-08:00The Power of Proximity<div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://1.bp.blogspot.com/-YoUFSBafCf4/X6sFpiqYg_I/AAAAAAAAB18/V7y6xUMAeu8onH4r_D2iMsaYWJPgpRwtQCLcBGAsYHQ/s704/Poster.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="704" data-original-width="571" height="320" src="https://1.bp.blogspot.com/-YoUFSBafCf4/X6sFpiqYg_I/AAAAAAAAB18/V7y6xUMAeu8onH4r_D2iMsaYWJPgpRwtQCLcBGAsYHQ/s320/Poster.jpg" /></a></div><br /></div><div>I totally have a crush on Sharon Eubank. My admiration for her deepened during <a href="https://www.churchofjesuschrist.org/study/general-conference/2020/10/31eubank?lang=eng">her most recent General Conference talk</a> when she said, “This world isn’t what I want it to be. There are many things I want to influence and make better. And frankly, there is a lot of opposition to what I hope for, and sometimes I feel powerless.” When I heard her say this I thought,<i> I feel you, Sister Eubank. </i><br /></div><br />“We may not yet be where we want to be, and we are not now where we will be,” Sister Eubank continued. “I believe the change we seek in ourselves and in the groups we belong to will come less by activism and more by actively trying every day to understand one another. Why? Because we are building Zion—a people ‘of one heart and one mind.’”<br /><table cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="float: right;"><tbody><tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://1.bp.blogspot.com/-WxjxDhjDDKQ/X6sKrGfmUAI/AAAAAAAAB2g/Lg4kRzDYhigXuwwnDPTisYIIosia51OkwCLcBGAsYHQ/s2048/Arizona.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" data-original-height="2048" data-original-width="1536" height="320" src="https://1.bp.blogspot.com/-WxjxDhjDDKQ/X6sKrGfmUAI/AAAAAAAAB2g/Lg4kRzDYhigXuwwnDPTisYIIosia51OkwCLcBGAsYHQ/s320/Arizona.jpg" /></a></td></tr><tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Nothing inspires me more than saguaros<br /></td></tr></tbody></table><br />Earlier this year the world was not what I wanted it to be. I saw and witnessed things that broke my heart. When the shutdown started in March I spent a few weeks in Arizona hunkered down with my friends Kevin and Allison. As I decompressed and thought about what I could do to make the world better, it occurred to me that I could teach a class. So I wrote a proposal for a course that was later named Understanding Self and Others: Diversity and Intersectionality. I sent the proposal to everyone in my upline at BYU and was pleasantly surprised (and so incredibly stoked) when it got approved. <br /><br />As I considered possible assignments, I wanted my students to really get to know themselves and other people. So the Proximate Paper was born. The assignment is based on an invitation <a href="https://news.byu.edu/news/byu-forum-creating-justice">Bryan Stevenson made at BYU</a> in 2018: “Our power is waiting for us, if we get proximate. We have to get closer to those places [where people are suffering] if we’re going to change the world.” Twice during the semester, my students interview someone from a different background and then write a personal reflection about the experience. <br /><br />I trained the class on how to do these interviews because I wanted my students to approach others with humility and respect, and with their consent. We practiced asking to hear someone’s story and how to ask good questions (e.g. What do you wish people understood about X? Could you describe some of your most interesting experiences as X? What have you not been able to share that you would like to share?). On the day we practiced doing proximate interviews in class I jumped from one group to another to observe how they were doing. I felt like an intruder as I popped into deeply personal conversations. I was amazed that my students had been so vulnerable with each other so quickly. Simply asking sincere, open ended questions created the space for students to share their hearts. Class that day felt like a sacred space. <br /><br />Grading papers is literally the worst part of teaching, so I didn’t anticipate the level of emotion I felt as I read through my students’ papers. Almost all of them interviewed people they already knew, and again and again students wrote things like, “I assumed X about my best friend, but it was really Y,” or “I thought I knew them well, but now I know them so much better,” or “we planned to talk for 20 minutes, but chatted for three hours.” My students realized that there was so much below the surface in these established relationships. Asking good questions and pausing to listen helped my students understand the people in their lives in new and deeper ways. I have permission to share a few brief stories. <br /><br />One student wrote: “I was lucky enough to be able to interview my own mother for this. My mom is my hero. I truly look up to her more than anyone. Her experience is unique and messy, interesting and complicated. I know about her situation, but because it is messy, it can be hard to recall details. What I didn’t know though, were my mom’s thoughts and feelings on her identity.” Her mom is gay. She had known this about her mom for years as a fact--as a descriptor. Through this assignment, my student came to see some of the many ways that this reality has impacted her mom’s life. Just knowing a fact about a loved one doesn’t mean that they are truly known to us. That takes real work. “I learned things about my mom I didn’t know. I feel a little sad that I didn’t know these things before.” <br /><br />Another student interviewed his mom who immigrated to the US before he was born. He wrote, “I learned that I am a product of many blessings and sacrifices and that it’s hard to give up your homeland and the family that are still there. It’s no laughing matter the sacrifice immigrants make to provide opportunities for their family and children.” Although he grew up knowing that his mom had immigrated, he had never really taken the time to understand the impact of her choice to leave her home country. Knowing a fact about someone is not the same as knowing their story.<br /><br />As part of the curriculum, we invite guest speakers in to address different aspects of diversity and inclusion. Many of my students have told me this is their favorite part of the class. On the day of our first guest panel, one of the participants said he wanted to be a little more vulnerable and then started to hesitate. Three of my students immediately jumped in and said, “Please, we want to hear your story,” and he then shared what was in his heart. When class was over I sat in my office and cried. It was a privilege to not only hear this man’s story, but to witness my class so sincerely encourage him to share and to honor his story. My tears were tears of gratitude. <br /><br /><table cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="float: left;"><tbody><tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://1.bp.blogspot.com/-V9XPW4yfZts/X6sLMcHj9qI/AAAAAAAAB2s/Y7K5YRy3sdk4zNCmqPzBVbMOZU7eJeO3QCLcBGAsYHQ/s2048/Sharon%2BEubank.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1565" data-original-width="2048" src="https://1.bp.blogspot.com/-V9XPW4yfZts/X6sLMcHj9qI/AAAAAAAAB2s/Y7K5YRy3sdk4zNCmqPzBVbMOZU7eJeO3QCLcBGAsYHQ/s320/Sharon%2BEubank.jpg" width="320" /></a></td></tr><tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Throwback to 2018 when I got to meet Sharon Eubank!<br /></td></tr></tbody></table>Sister Eubank taught that we make the world better by genuinely trying to understand those around us. I can see this happening in my students’ papers and in their interactions in class. I can see hearts and minds coming together and my students can, too. I never expected grading papers to be a manifestation of hearts and minds coming together to build Zion.<br /><br />There are many things in the world that I want to influence and make better. Sometimes the prospect is daunting. The world is not where I want it to be. But I can teach a class. And through this class I can encourage others to embrace Sister Eubank’s call to build Zion. Because building Zion is a cooperative endeavor of vulnerability, compassion, and righteousness. <br /><br />Zion needs you too. Please take time to sit down with someone you already know and invite them to tell you their story. Because as Sister Eubank said “the change we seek in ourselves and in the groups we belong to will come ... by actively trying every day to understand one another.”<br /><br /><br />Benhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/04151204932376899998noreply@blogger.com8tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7565469030539917833.post-9150181247437122222020-08-17T12:36:00.000-07:002020-08-17T21:29:32.654-07:00How to Avoid Being a Jerk to Gay People<span style="font-family: "calibri" , sans-serif;"></span><br />
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<span style="font-family: "calibri" , sans-serif;">I don't know about you, but I have a lot of experience being a jerk. I rarely behave like a jerk on purpose, it happens most frequently with the people I love, and almost always because I lack empathy. </span><span style="font-family: "calibri" , sans-serif;"> </span><br />
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For example, I’ve been a total jerk to my dad. His life has gotten considerably harder since my mom was diagnosed with Alzheimer’s four years ago. I have recommended to my dad multiple times that he move my mom to an assisted living facility. The solution is so obvious to me that I can’t help but tell him what to do over and over again. But he doesn’t listen to me, so I watch him choose to make his life harder by keeping my mom at home. <o:p></o:p></div>
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A few months ago, I was staying with my parents for a few weeks. I don’t recall what prompted it, but I decided to take a mental journey. I imagined what it would be like to do what I had so often recommended--to take my mom to an assisted living center. I pictured us packing her bags. I pictured us driving her to her new home. I pictured us helping her set up her room and telling her how much she was going to love it there. I pictured us hugging her, saying goodbye, and leaving her. I pictured us driving away and getting home and sobbing. And then I pictured her alone in an unfamiliar place. After thinking through that possibility, I realized in that moment that I was telling my dad to do something that I couldn’t do. </div>
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My advice to my dad had been the wrong advice because I didn’t truly take the time to understand the implication of my advice on my mom. That night I wrote a long entry in my journal praising my dad. He was giving my mom the best gift he could by allowing her to be in her home, and he was doing it at great personal sacrifice. I had been so focused on fixing his problem that I failed to understand his commitment to his wife. <o:p></o:p></div>
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In Acts 15, amid the rapid influx of gentiles into the church, the leaders of Christ’s Church had a meeting to figure out what to do with all the new members. Some of the Pharisees in attendance insisted that the Gentile converts needed to keep the law of Moses. I don’t know if they this took this position because of centuries of tradition, or because the Gentiles were different from them and made them feel uncomfortable. Whatever the reason, these Pharisees were kind of being jerks. <o:p></o:p></div>
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In the midst of their lively debate, Peter rises from his seat and asks, “Now therefore why tempt ye God, to put a yoke upon the neck of the disciples, which neither our fathers nor we were able to bear?” In essence Peter asked: <i>Why are you asking them to do something you couldn’t do?</i> Peter asked them to take a mental journey—to put themselves in the position of the new converts—and really try to understand what they were asking of the Gentiles. Peter wanted them to understand that they would not be capable of making the sacrifice that they were advocating for.<o:p></o:p></div>
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A lot of well-meaning people have been truly unkind to me and other LGBTQ Latter-day Saints. I attribute this unkindness to ignorance and not to malice. So if you are not a gay Latter-day Saint I’d like to make an invitation. Take some time, some real solid thinking time, to go on a mental journey. Put yourself in the shoes of your LGBTQ brothers and sisters and ask yourself what you would do if you experienced their challenges. Here are some situations to consider that reflect some of my lived experience: <o:p></o:p></div>
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<i>What would you do if you were taught that the whole point of life was to marry someone that you weren’t attracted to? </i></div>
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<i>What would you do if you fell profoundly in love with a person (who by some miracle seemed to love you even more), but if you were to marry them you’d be barred from heaven? </i></div>
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<i>What would you do if people at church thought of you and even called you a pervert? </i></div>
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<i>What would you do if people told you that your orientation was the result of sexual abuse and bad parenting? </i></div>
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<i>What would you do if you wanted to move forward in the Church and be with a partner, but you knew you couldn’t do both things? </i></div>
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Agency is contextual and our decisions are not made in a vacuum. The majority of my LGBTQ Latter-day Saint friends have distanced themselves from the Church in some way. I know very few like me who are committed to a life of singleness and committed to moving forward in the Church. Why are there so few of us? Where are all the happy, thriving, single gay Latter-day Saints? Of the LGBTQ Latter-day Saints you know, how many of them have stepped away from the Church? Why is that? What isn’t working? I think that part of the way that we are unintentionally being jerks is by completely blaming their leaving on them. <o:p></o:p></div>
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I know they’re not meaning to, but parents can really be jerks to their LGBTQ children. I worry that some parents are afraid that the Atonement won’t work for their kids. So they push them to make the “right” choices. They can’t understand why their kids would make choices different from the ones they have made. </div>
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If parents and have taught their children truth, and have helped them have experiences with the Spirit, then they just have to trust that their kids can find their path. I have been able to make the choices I have made because my family gave me the freedom to make hard choices. Because there was no one putting a yoke on my neck. When parents express confidence in their children’s ability to receive revelation then they are more likely to seek that revelation and follow it. If we push people to do what we want them to do all we’re really doing is pushing them away. And we’re kind of being big jerks. </div>
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To quote Disney’s <i>Pocahontas</i>, “If you walk the footsteps of a stranger, you’ll learn things you never knew you never knew.” If you want to avoid being a jerk to the LGBTQ people in your life, never ask them to do something that you yourself couldn’t do. If you want to avoid being a jerk, take some time to really put yourself in their shoes. If you want to avoid being a jerk, imagine how you would employ your agency given the context of their lives. Imagine how you would want someone you love to react to your difficult decisions—decisions that might seem completely foreign to them. We can never really know what it’s like to be someone else, but it’s a real gift when we try. And we can trust the Savior to guide our actions, and the paths of those we love.<o:p></o:p></div>
Benhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/04151204932376899998noreply@blogger.com24tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7565469030539917833.post-37434319359200506602020-07-27T16:24:00.001-07:002020-07-27T16:24:51.513-07:00I Work in Building Named after a Man Who Said Homophobic Things<table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><tbody><tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://1.bp.blogspot.com/-EKVooG89ceM/Xx9fg8vgvWI/AAAAAAAABzQ/XXltLGj8kf4l-AohL6CDjmo8uwXrFZZsACLcBGAsYHQ/s2048/44A04AB1-7EBF-40E6-A283-0C654B146B6D.heic" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" data-original-height="2048" data-original-width="1536" height="320" src="https://1.bp.blogspot.com/-EKVooG89ceM/Xx9fg8vgvWI/AAAAAAAABzQ/XXltLGj8kf4l-AohL6CDjmo8uwXrFZZsACLcBGAsYHQ/w240-h320/44A04AB1-7EBF-40E6-A283-0C654B146B6D.heic" width="240" /></a></td></tr><tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Me in front of the Wilk in 2018</td></tr></tbody></table><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><br /></div><p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: Calibri, sans-serif; margin: 0in 0in 0.0001pt;"><i>Disclaimer: Like all my posts, I speak only for myself here. I do not speak for my employer nor do I speak for other queer people associated with BYU. And I certainly don’t speak for the many people who are calling for buildings to be renamed and monuments to be removed. You have not yet understood my message if you attempt to use my words to silence or diminish the voices of those who are expressing pain and hurt and are asking for change. <o:p></o:p></i></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: Calibri, sans-serif; margin: 0in 0in 0.0001pt;"><o:p> </o:p></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: Calibri, sans-serif; margin: 0in 0in 0.0001pt;">“Given the choice of anyone in the world, whom would you want as a dinner guest?” I read the first question from the <i>36 Questions that Lead to Love </i>to my brother. When it was my turn I responded, “Ernest L. Wilkinson.” <o:p></o:p></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: Calibri, sans-serif; margin: 0in 0in 0.0001pt;"><o:p> </o:p></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: Calibri, sans-serif; margin: 0in 0in 0.0001pt;">“Who?” my brother asked.<o:p></o:p></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: Calibri, sans-serif; margin: 0in 0in 0.0001pt;"><o:p> </o:p></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: Calibri, sans-serif; margin: 0in 0in 0.0001pt;">“He was president of BYU in the 50s and 60s, and he said some pretty homophobic things. I think if he got to know me, I could change his mind.” <o:p></o:p></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: Calibri, sans-serif; margin: 0in 0in 0.0001pt;"><o:p> </o:p></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: Calibri, sans-serif; margin: 0in 0in 0.0001pt;">Despite spending nine years of my life at BYU, I really know very little about Ernest L. Wilkinson. Most of what I know about him I read in a biography about someone else. During my eight years as a student I was in a building named after him almost daily. And now as an employee, I sit in an office in a building that bears his name. <o:p></o:p></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: Calibri, sans-serif; margin: 0in 0in 0.0001pt;"><o:p> </o:p></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: Calibri, sans-serif; margin: 0in 0in 0.0001pt;">It occurred to me one day while I was sitting in my office in the Wilkinson Student Center, that I was sitting in building named after someone who I don’t believe would have supported the hiring of an openly gay person like me. I tried to sit with this feeling and explore it. As I sat in my office chair, swiveling back and forth, I recognized that the feeling I was experiencing was hope. <o:p></o:p></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: Calibri, sans-serif; margin: 0in 0in 0.0001pt;"><o:p> </o:p></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: Calibri, sans-serif; margin: 0in 0in 0.0001pt;">I don’t know how all the LGBTQ students, faculty, and staff at BYU feel about regularly entering a building named after someone who said homophobic things. In fact, I’m confident that others feel quite differently than I do—and that’s okay. But to me, working in a building named after Ernest L. Wilkinson feels like a victory. It feels like progress. And it feels like a small bit of redemption.<o:p></o:p></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: Calibri, sans-serif; margin: 0in 0in 0.0001pt;"><o:p> </o:p></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: Calibri, sans-serif; margin: 0in 0in 0.0001pt;">Not everyone was homophobic in Wilkinson’s day. It would be unfair to dismiss what he said because of the time he lived in. I believe he could’ve been more kind and I wish he had been. From a quick Google search, I learned that he died six years before I was born. We didn’t even get the chance to know one another. <o:p></o:p></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: Calibri, sans-serif; margin: 0in 0in 0.0001pt;"><o:p> </o:p></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: Calibri, sans-serif; margin: 0in 0in 0.0001pt;">When I review my journals from my early 20s, I find a lot of homophobic things that I believed and wrote. It’s frankly quite disturbing the things that I believed about homosexuals, and I’m the gay one. Had I died at 23, the only writings I would have left on LGBTQ issues would have been rather embarrassing. My views on same-sex attraction didn’t start to seriously change until I neared 30. That’s when I really started to get to know some gay people. I could hate myself just fine, but once I started to really get to know LGBTQ folks, my heart shifted and changed rapidly. In the last seven years I have experienced a monumental shift in my thinking simply because I really got to know people that I had judged and misjudged. Ernest L. Wilkinson died 42 years ago. I wonder how his heart would’ve changed with an added 42 years of growth and experience. <o:p></o:p></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: Calibri, sans-serif; margin: 0in 0in 0.0001pt;"><o:p> </o:p></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: Calibri, sans-serif; margin: 0in 0in 0.0001pt;">I believe in redemption. I believe that most people, when given the chance, will do better and be better (I mean, that’s the whole message of <i>The Good Place</i>). I’ve seen this happen again and again. I don’t ever ask for it or expect it, but a lot of people have apologized to me since I came out. They apologize for things they said or did that I usually don’t even remember. But they remember, and they want me to know that they’re sorry and are going to be better. I don’t know exactly what dinner with Ernest L. Wilkinson would look like, but I imagine there would be some sacred moments of growth for both of us. <o:p></o:p></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: Calibri, sans-serif; margin: 0in 0in 0.0001pt;"><o:p> </o:p></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: Calibri, sans-serif; margin: 0in 0in 0.0001pt;">The lyrics from <a href="https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=SSP3UvM62Ds">this short song</a> from <i>Steven Universe </i>encapsulate the message I would have for the man that the building I work in is named after:<o:p></o:p></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: Calibri, sans-serif; margin: 0in 0in 0.0001pt;"><o:p> </o:p></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: Calibri, sans-serif; margin: 0in 0in 0.0001pt;"><i>I don't need you to respect me, I respect me<br />I don't need you to love me, I love me<br />But I want you to know you could know me<br />If you change your mind<br />If you change your mind<br />If you change your mind<br />Change your mind<o:p></o:p></i></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: Calibri, sans-serif; margin: 0in 0in 0.0001pt;"><o:p> </o:p></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: Calibri, sans-serif; margin: 0in 0in 0.0001pt;">I’ve spent so much time in this building. As a gay student, I sat on a stage in the Wilkinson Student Center with three other LGBTQ students as we shared our experiences as sexual and gender minorities. As a gay student, I sat in the Wilkinson Student Center as a panelist at BYU’s Religious Freedom Annual Review and spoke about being LGBTQ at BYU. As a gay employee, I’ve sat in my office in the Wilkinson Student Center with numerous LGBTQ students as I have heard their stories. And as an openly gay employee working in the Wilkinson Student Center, many people have now had the chance to get to know me. <o:p></o:p></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: Calibri, sans-serif; margin: 0in 0in 0.0001pt;"><o:p> </o:p></p><table cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="float: right;"><tbody><tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://1.bp.blogspot.com/-8NFTPapPlDg/Xx9eVZHo_YI/AAAAAAAABy8/ioNiNWybT9sqpYQicnLCrRtDKK6m4QzVwCLcBGAsYHQ/s2048/7791EEC6-B804-4242-B12E-28643D65770A.heic" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1536" data-original-width="2048" height="240" src="https://1.bp.blogspot.com/-8NFTPapPlDg/Xx9eVZHo_YI/AAAAAAAABy8/ioNiNWybT9sqpYQicnLCrRtDKK6m4QzVwCLcBGAsYHQ/w320-h240/7791EEC6-B804-4242-B12E-28643D65770A.heic" width="320" /></a></td></tr><tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Fun photos, huh?</td></tr></tbody></table><p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: Calibri, sans-serif; margin: 0in 0in 0.0001pt;">Even for the students who don’t get to know me personally, I have tried to make the Wilkinson Student Center more welcoming and beautiful. The hallway leading to my office was just bare, white walls when I was hired last August. At the end of last year, I volunteered to choose pictures to be hung on the walls. I chose seven stock photos of BYU campus that I thought were beautiful and fun. My hope is that the pictures will bring a smile to the faces of the students who walk down the hall. This corner of the Wilkinson Student Center is a little better because I work here, and that feels like a victory to me. I believe that as more openly LGBTQ people are hired or come out at BYU, and as all of us who work and study at BYU, whether we’re LGBTQ or not, try to make campus more beautiful and welcoming, that the campus will be more and more enriched. And I believe that if Ernest L. Wilkinson could get to know all of us, and in particular learn how integral to our BYU community our LGBTQ members are, that he would be thrilled to have us working in a building that bears his name.</p><p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: Calibri, sans-serif; margin: 0in 0in 0.0001pt;"><br /></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: Calibri, sans-serif; margin: 0in 0in 0.0001pt;">I was unaware of the homophobic things that Ernest L. Wilkinson said until just a few years ago. It was painful to come across and read his words. I hurt for the LGBTQ students who heard him say those awful things back when he was university president. And I felt grateful that those words were no longer being said. I also wondered if his homophobic words were better kept hidden in the past or if it would be best to bring them to light again. I’m still not sure, but I purposefully haven’t shared them here. <o:p></o:p></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: Calibri, sans-serif; margin: 0in 0in 0.0001pt;"><o:p> </o:p></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: Calibri, sans-serif; margin: 0in 0in 0.0001pt;">Now, as I think about Ernest L. Wilkinson regularly, I don’t feel a need to rename the building I work in (although there is no building I’d rather work in than the <a href="http://benschilaty.blogspot.com/2015/05/middle-naming.html">Jane Elizabeth Manning James</a> Building). Personally, working in the Wilkinson Student Center reminds that I need to let people know me and that I need to be seen. I need to share my own story and experiences as a gay person and I need to elevated the stories of other LGBTQ people at BYU. I believe that most people who say homophobic things would change their minds if they took the chance to get to know us. <o:p></o:p></p>Benhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/04151204932376899998noreply@blogger.com16tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7565469030539917833.post-7397058646982539612020-03-04T10:07:00.001-08:002020-03-04T10:07:22.883-08:00The Love of God in the Toughest of Times<!--[if gte mso 9]><xml>
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<br />
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span lang="EN">Friday, September 4th, 2015 was one of the
worst nights of life. My stake president called me unexpectedly. Over the past
six months we had been working and counseling together to form a
stake-sponsored group for LGBTQ Latter-day Saints. A member of the high council
had been assigned to work with me and we had written a charter for the group. I
presented that charter to the stake council which approved it. The area leaders
and other stake leaders in Tucson were supportive as well. We were good to go
it seemed. </span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span lang="EN">We had our first meeting on Tuesday, September
1st in a church building. The meeting was wonderful and I immediately saw how needed
it was. That night I received a Facebook message from an acquaintance who had
wanted to come to the meeting, but had been too afraid. He came over to my
house the next day and opened his heart to me telling me that he had always
been more attracted to men than women. It was the first time he had ever shared
those feelings with another person who had a similar orientation. We swapped experiences,
we discussed our faith, and we were both strengthened. I immediately experienced
how much LGBTQ Latter-day Saints need each other. I felt like I was following
promptings from the Holy Ghost and I was pumped to see the group grow and strengthen Zion. </span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span lang="EN">Then just a couple of days later, my stake
president called and told me that the stake would no longer be able to sponsor
the group. He told me that church headquarters had contacted him and indicated
that stakes could not sponsor such support groups. The group was immediately
shut down. </span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span lang="EN">I was livid and I was so hurt. I had felt
prompted to start this group and had felt divine guidance to do so. My stake
president also expressed similar feelings of having felt guided in our efforts,
and he, too, was saddened by the outcome. We commiserated on the phone and he
was so kind. When we hung up, I paced around the house for the few minutes not
sure what to do. Then I collapsed on a chair in my living room and sobbed uncontrollably.
I wrote in my journal that night: “I haven’t cried like that since I was a kid.
It felt like my heart was ripped out. I began to really wonder if I’d been
foolish and if there really was no place for me. For the first time I felt
rejected by the institution and it really hurt.” </span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span lang="EN">Once I stopped crying, I paced around the
house some more. I didn’t know what to do. I felt like I was about to explode. This
couldn’t be happening. This wasn’t real. I stormed out of my house and wandered
aimlessly in the night, not knowing where to go or what to do, but knowing I
couldn’t just sit. The high councilor I’d been working with called me, knowing
that I’d be struggling. He was validating and kind and did his best to make me
feel better, but I didn’t feel better. How could I feel good about this?</span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span lang="EN">I got home and kneeled in my room and I raged
at God. “You told me to do this! I felt so strongly that I was supposed to do
this and I did it because You told me to! You need to fix this! I did exactly
what I was asked to do! You need to fix this!”</span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span lang="EN">I woke up angry on Saturday morning. Sunday
morning I was still angry. It was Fast and Testimony meeting and as I sat in my
pew listening to person after person say that the Church was led by God, I just
got madder and madder. When the meeting was over I was fuming and agitated and
I was ready to storm out of the church and never come back. The Church had
rejected me and I was going to reject it. I was sitting next to a friend who
was serving as the Primary president. She asked if I was okay and I told her
that I was not and that I was going home. She said, “Just come to Primary with
me, Ben.” And I did. </span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span lang="EN">As I sat in Primary and sang those simple
songs, my heart began to heal. Sitting in that room, singing about Jesus, the
Spirit spoke to my heart. I felt God’s love in a real, tangible way. I didn’t
want to feel good. I didn’t want to feel love. I wanted to stay angry. But I felt
strongly and boldly accepted and loved by God. I wanted to be mad because I had
been so hurt, but as the Spirit healed that hurt, my anger started to fade
away. </span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span lang="EN">Romans 8:38-39: “For I am persuaded, that
neither death, nor life, nor angels, nor principalities, nor powers, nor things
present, nor things to come, nor height, nor depth, nor any other creature,
shall be able to separate us from the love of God, which is in Christ Jesus our
Lord.” Not even angels can separate us from the love of God. </span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span lang="EN">Out of all the tough moments I’ve had as a gay
Latter-day Saint, this one was the toughest. I had felt so incredibly certain
that I was supposed to start this support group and then the Church told me I
couldn’t. I was trying to reach out to people in need and the Church said, “No,
not like that.” I ached on the inside. It broke my heart. My stake president
encouraged me to run the group on my own, independent of the Church, and that’s
what I did. And I believe it’s what God wanted me to do. The two years I ran
that group were some of the happiest of my life. I’ve written about the group
extensively on my blog (like <a href="http://benschilaty.blogspot.com/2019/04/reconciling-changed-policy.html">here</a>, <a href="http://benschilaty.blogspot.com/2016/11/creating-space-for-gay-mormons-in-tucson.html">here</a>, and <a href="http://benschilaty.blogspot.com/2019/09/the-place-where-i-found-courage-to-be-me.html">here</a>) so I won’t do it again here, but I still think it’s the
best thing I’ve ever done. </span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span lang="EN">Whenever something LGBTQ related happens with
the Church, I don’t experience it in isolation. All the other things, including
the experience I shared here, bubble up to the surface. I remember the years
when I would have rather been dead and straight than alive and gay. I remember
the times I heard my fellow saints say awful things about LGBTQ people. I
remember the November 2015 policy. I remember all the years of feeling rejected
because of my orientation. I don’t spend my days thinking of the pain and
sacrifice that come with being and gay member of the Church of Jesus Christ of
Latter-day Saints. I don’t spend my days longing for what I can’t have. I don’t
spend my days pondering the doctrine of eternal marriage and the necessity of
marrying a woman. Mostly life is really, really good and calm. But when tough
things happen, it’s like someone amasses all these years of pain into an oozing
ball, places it in my hands and says, “Here. Look at this. Deal with this.” </span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span lang="EN">Again and again, in these tough moments, I
have needed to connect with the God and feel His love. That has often happened
through other people. On the same Sunday that I attended Primary, I got an
email from a counselor in the stake presidency that said, “Ben, you are part of
our family and we have been so blessed to have you come into our lives. We love
you so much and cherish our relationship with you here in mortality and want it
to continue into the eternities.” I cried, of course.</span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span lang="EN">I’m not saying that this is true for anyone
else, but it’s true for me. I need to learn to love, forgive, and see the good
in people. Even those people who are unintentionally causing me pain. </span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span lang="EN">My hope is that any LGBTQ Latter-day Saint who
is feeling pain, can have an experience like I had in Primary where I was able
to feel the love of God. Or that some kind Church leader will reach out to them
and tell them how much they are loved and valued forever. I don’t know what
that will look like for each individual, but I do know that the love of God can
be felt in the toughest of times. And if you are in my sphere of influence and
you are in pain, come be with me and we can hold that pain together. I mean
that. </span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
Benhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/04151204932376899998noreply@blogger.com13tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7565469030539917833.post-39459425887548824572020-02-12T16:06:00.000-08:002020-02-12T16:06:21.340-08:00I’m (hopefully) Less Racist than I Used to Be<!--[if gte mso 9]><xml>
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<div class="MsoNormal">
<span lang="EN"></span><span lang="EN">As a tall, white, English speaking, educated male with hair, I’m one of the most privileged people on the
planet. And I have a lot of blind spots. </span>
</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span lang="EN">Last Thursday I attended a panel on race and
immigration at BYU. The keynote address was given by a former professor of
mine. She spoke of her experience as a black immigrant from Africa with
poignancy and humor. I felt so lucky that I was able to be her student. After
her talk she participated on a panel with black, immigrant students. </span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span lang="EN">The panel of black women spoke powerfully and
authentically. One of them spoke about living in a refugee camp for years
before relocating to the US. I tried to put myself in her shoes and imagine
what it would have been like as a teenager to have to flee my home, live in a
camp with an uncertain future, and then move to a place where everything was
different. Another panelist spoke of being adopted from an African country at
the age of three. She grew up in a white family in Provo, UT. I wondered what
it would have been like if I had been adopted by a family that didn’t look like
me and grow up in a place where few people at all looked like me. Walking in
their shoes for a few minutes expanded my heart. </span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<a href="https://1.bp.blogspot.com/-jR5AsfSfjTI/XkSPiip6trI/AAAAAAAABxU/WVFzgqbPEQsWa7uZMo2HvyUguOqQp2QCwCEwYBhgL/s1600/Jane.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; float: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="600" data-original-width="320" height="320" src="https://1.bp.blogspot.com/-jR5AsfSfjTI/XkSPiip6trI/AAAAAAAABxU/WVFzgqbPEQsWa7uZMo2HvyUguOqQp2QCwCEwYBhgL/s320/Jane.jpg" width="170" /></a><span lang="EN"></span><span lang="EN"></span><span lang="EN">I noticed that one of the panelists described
herself as Nigerian-American and I wanted to understand what the nuances were
for her of identifying as Nigerian-American and not African-American. When the
panel started, everyone in the room was told that we could submit questions via
an app. I hadn’t planned on asking any questions, but I was suddenly curious
about black identities and self-identification. So I pulled out my phone ready
to type my question. Then I saw some of the questions that had already been
submitted and I was deeply disturbed. </span>
</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span lang="EN">Most of the questions were respectful and
inquisitive, but some of them were insensitive, antagonistic, and just plain
racist. I was shocked. The auditorium we were in was not big. There couldn’t
have been many more than a hundred people in the room. I knew about fifteen
people in the room and I wondered, who on earth wrote these questions? I looked
down at my right hand, at the rainbow ring on my ring finger, and I felt
exposed. I remembered the LGBT panel I had been on at BYU two years before as a
student where we had used the same app and homophobic and transphobic questions
had been submitted. If there were people in this very room saying these things,
what would they say to a gay person in the room like me? I realized that I
could take my ring off if I wanted to and play straight. I could leverage all
my other privileges and hide my minority status if I wanted to, but the black
women on the stage couldn’t do that. </span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span lang="EN">When I was 20 years old and on my mission in
Mexico, my Mexican companion told me that something I said was racist. I
disagreed and refused to listen. I was a good person. I loved Mexico. How could
I be a racist? Unfortunately, I was more concerned with asserting that I wasn’t
racist than I was with understanding why he thought I was racist. Now, with 16
years of hindsight, I understand that what I said was totally racist, but I
wasn’t prepared to accept that back then. </span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span lang="EN">When I was 29, just six and a half years ago,
I wasn’t out publicly. After coming out to a close friend he asked me if I
thought I was born gay. I told him that I thought homosexuality was like a
mental illness, that there was something wrong with my brain that needed to be
fixed. Looking back, I can’t believe that I thought that so recently. Something
that seems so offensive to me now was true to me not that long ago. At 29, I
had only talked to one other gay person about being gay--in my entire life.
What changed my way of thinking was getting to know and getting close to so
many other LGBTQ people. I’m grateful to my many friends who let me walk in
their shoes because they helped me to understand myself better. </span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span lang="EN">When I hear people say homophobic things, I
try to be patient and remind myself that not too long ago I could’ve said
something similar. I’m not trying to excuse ignorance or say that it’s okay to
say hurtful things. It’s just that I know what it’s like to be incredibly rude
without realizing it. And I’m so sorry for the ignorant things I’ve said and
done (and most certainly unknowingly still say and do). </span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span lang="EN">I’ve read a lot of articles about the panel
last week and it is such a shame that a few rude, antagonist people hijacked a
beautiful event. It’s disappointing that many of the articles focused on the
racist comments while failing to highlight the powerful things that were shared
by the panelists. I walked away from the panel wondering what I can do to help
refugees and how I can be more inclusive of people whose backgrounds are
different from mine. I walked home wondering what I can do to make my community
better. I wish that the news had better highlighted how those in the audience
felt a call to be better instead of those people who were trying to pull others
down. </span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span lang="EN">I have spent nine years at BYU. First as a
closested undergrad, then as an out graduate student, and now as an employee. I
have found that most people at BYU are so so good. And when they know better
they do better. I’ve encountered a few people who are more interested in
talking than in listening and understanding, but they are the minority. As a
person of immense privilege, I understand how easy it is to miss my blind spots,
but I’m trying hard to be better. One of the ways I try to be better is by elevating the stories of others. I have a painting of Jane Manning James hanging in my office. I tell almost every student who comes to my office about this faithful, black pioneer woman who is my hero. She, like so many others, deserves to be remembered. </span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span lang="EN">I want to thank the courageous women who
shared their stories at the panel last week. I’m a richer person because of
their stories. And I’m so sorry that there were people in attendance who came
to demean instead of be edified. I have no idea what it’s like to be a racial
minority at BYU. I don’t know what it’s like to not look like everyone else. I
don’t know what it’s like to feel judged because of my race. But I do know what
courage looks like. And that’s what I saw in the panelists last week. </span></div>
Benhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/04151204932376899998noreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7565469030539917833.post-54374645461338915432019-10-21T14:33:00.000-07:002019-10-21T14:33:17.952-07:00There Will Be No Conversion Therapy in Zion<table cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="float: right; margin-left: 1em; text-align: right;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://1.bp.blogspot.com/-2RB-mP6bA0w/Xa4c69YBL1I/AAAAAAAABwU/nDl1QcI3BD4YLWuHB0LUHXDHQ8e8Z2JHwCLcBGAsYHQ/s1600/6A0C2358-35E0-4968-9EF3-BDABB674D2A8.jpeg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1600" data-original-width="1200" height="320" src="https://1.bp.blogspot.com/-2RB-mP6bA0w/Xa4c69YBL1I/AAAAAAAABwU/nDl1QcI3BD4YLWuHB0LUHXDHQ8e8Z2JHwCLcBGAsYHQ/s320/6A0C2358-35E0-4968-9EF3-BDABB674D2A8.jpeg" width="240" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">The incomparable Buzz and Ginny Schilaty</td></tr>
</tbody></table>
<div dir="ltr" style="line-height: 1.38; margin-bottom: 0pt; margin-top: 0pt;">
<span style="background-color: transparent; color: black; font-family: Arial; font-size: 11pt; font-style: normal; font-variant-caps: normal; font-variant-east-asian: normal; font-variant-ligatures: normal; font-variant-position: normal; font-weight: 400; text-decoration: none; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;">In 2007, at the age of 23, my parents became the 5th and 6th people I told that I was attracted to men. They were immediately loving and kind. During our initial conversation my mom asked if I thought it was a phase. I responded, “I hope so.” My dad also said, “Well, you’re probably better off being single because being married is hard.” The next day they brought up the topic again. They thought that the problem was that I’d never really dated anyone, and that if I just had a girlfriend the feelings would go away. Having been on lots of dates I wasn't so sure. I ended the conversation as quickly as I could because I felt like they didn’t get it. Two months later my parents called me. Their bishop had encouraged them to encourage me to see a therapist to change my orientation. I followed their counsel and I went to two conversion therapy sessions. I wrote more details about that experience <a href="http://benschilaty.blogspot.com/2019/02/the-time-i-went-to-conversion-therapy.html">here</a>. </span></div>
<b id="docs-internal-guid-bb31c274-7fff-b356-c04c-45d9d298e03e" style="-webkit-text-size-adjust: auto; -webkit-text-stroke-width: 0px; caret-color: rgb(0, 0, 0); color: black; font-family: -webkit-standard; font-style: normal; font-variant-caps: normal; font-weight: normal; letter-spacing: normal; orphans: auto; text-align: start; text-decoration: none; text-indent: 0px; text-transform: none; white-space: normal; widows: auto; word-spacing: 0px;"><br /></b>
<div dir="ltr" style="line-height: 1.38; margin-bottom: 0pt; margin-top: 0pt;">
<span style="background-color: transparent; color: black; font-family: Arial; font-size: 11pt; font-style: normal; font-variant-caps: normal; font-variant-east-asian: normal; font-variant-ligatures: normal; font-variant-position: normal; font-weight: 400; text-decoration: none; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;">The issue here wasn’t the existence of conversion therapy. The problem was that my parents, their bishop, and I all thought my orientation could be changed. When I said I didn’t want to go to therapy anymore, my parents were extremely supportive. They never brought it up again. And then, years later, when I opened up to them and told them my gay Latter-day Saint story, they finally knew what it was like to walk in my shoes. When they saw into my heart, they knew that trying to change my orientation was not the right thing to do. They have apologized multiple times for encouraging me to go to therapy to change my orientation. They were offering the best solution they had. They were acting with the best of intentions. The existence of conversion therapy wasn’t a problm. The problem was that we all believed my orientation was a phase. </span></div>
<b style="-webkit-text-size-adjust: auto; -webkit-text-stroke-width: 0px; caret-color: rgb(0, 0, 0); color: black; font-family: -webkit-standard; font-style: normal; font-variant-caps: normal; font-weight: normal; letter-spacing: normal; orphans: auto; text-align: start; text-decoration: none; text-indent: 0px; text-transform: none; white-space: normal; widows: auto; word-spacing: 0px;"><br /></b>
<div dir="ltr" style="line-height: 1.38; margin-bottom: 0pt; margin-top: 0pt;">
<span style="background-color: transparent; color: black; font-family: Arial; font-size: 11pt; font-style: normal; font-variant-caps: normal; font-variant-east-asian: normal; font-variant-ligatures: normal; font-variant-position: normal; font-weight: 400; text-decoration: none; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;">Last week the Church of Jesus Christ of Latter-day Saints released a statement explaining their opposition to “a proposed professional licensing rule governing sexual orientation and gender identity change efforts.” The statement went on to say: “The Church denounces any abusive professional practice or treatment.” The Church didn’t clarify in the statement what these practices or treatments are. However, the therapy arm of the Church, Family Services, issued a very long statement saying they don’t practice conversation therapy or anything like it (anymore). The Church, as an institution, is no longer promoting conversion therapy. But that doesn’t mean that all is well in Zion. </span></div>
<b style="-webkit-text-size-adjust: auto; -webkit-text-stroke-width: 0px; caret-color: rgb(0, 0, 0); color: black; font-family: -webkit-standard; font-style: normal; font-variant-caps: normal; font-weight: normal; letter-spacing: normal; orphans: auto; text-align: start; text-decoration: none; text-indent: 0px; text-transform: none; white-space: normal; widows: auto; word-spacing: 0px;"><br /></b>
<div dir="ltr" style="line-height: 1.38; margin-bottom: 0pt; margin-top: 0pt;">
<span style="background-color: transparent; color: black; font-family: Arial; font-size: 11pt; font-style: normal; font-variant-caps: normal; font-variant-east-asian: normal; font-variant-ligatures: normal; font-variant-position: normal; font-weight: 400; text-decoration: none; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;">The root of the problem is that many Latter-day Saints still believe that being LGBT is a choice and a phase and that it is changeable.</span></div>
<b style="-webkit-text-size-adjust: auto; -webkit-text-stroke-width: 0px; caret-color: rgb(0, 0, 0); color: black; font-family: -webkit-standard; font-style: normal; font-variant-caps: normal; font-weight: normal; letter-spacing: normal; orphans: auto; text-align: start; text-decoration: none; text-indent: 0px; text-transform: none; white-space: normal; widows: auto; word-spacing: 0px;"><br /></b>
<div dir="ltr" style="line-height: 1.38; margin-bottom: 0pt; margin-top: 0pt;">
<span style="background-color: transparent; color: black; font-family: Arial; font-size: 11pt; font-style: normal; font-variant-caps: normal; font-variant-east-asian: normal; font-variant-ligatures: normal; font-variant-position: normal; font-weight: 400; text-decoration: none; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;">I don’t blame any Church member for believing this. I mean, I believed it. I was taught and believed that being gay is a trial. I was taught by Church leaders that it’s an inclination and temptation that won’t exist in the next life. It’s just an affliction of mortality. In my mind, I wasn’t gay, I just wasn’t straight yet. And if I was faithful enough I could be fixed. If not in this life surely in the next. I have a copy of </span><span style="background-color: transparent; color: black; font-family: Arial; font-size: 11pt; font-style: italic; font-variant-caps: normal; font-variant-east-asian: normal; font-variant-ligatures: normal; font-variant-position: normal; font-weight: 400; text-decoration: none; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;">The</span><span style="background-color: transparent; color: black; font-family: Arial; font-size: 11pt; font-style: normal; font-variant-caps: normal; font-variant-east-asian: normal; font-variant-ligatures: normal; font-variant-position: normal; font-weight: 400; text-decoration: none; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;"> </span><span style="background-color: transparent; color: black; font-family: Arial; font-size: 11pt; font-style: italic; font-variant-caps: normal; font-variant-east-asian: normal; font-variant-ligatures: normal; font-variant-position: normal; font-weight: 400; text-decoration: none; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;">Miracle of Forgiveness </span><span style="background-color: transparent; color: black; font-family: Arial; font-size: 11pt; font-style: normal; font-variant-caps: normal; font-variant-east-asian: normal; font-variant-ligatures: normal; font-variant-position: normal; font-weight: 400; text-decoration: none; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;">on my shelf right now that says that my same-sex attraction can and should be cured. Many Latter-day Saints still hold on to outdated statements that reflect limited understanding of the issue and are unaware of more current teachings that reflect the further light and knowledge we’ve received. </span></div>
<b style="-webkit-text-size-adjust: auto; -webkit-text-stroke-width: 0px; caret-color: rgb(0, 0, 0); color: black; font-family: -webkit-standard; font-style: normal; font-variant-caps: normal; font-weight: normal; letter-spacing: normal; orphans: auto; text-align: start; text-decoration: none; text-indent: 0px; text-transform: none; white-space: normal; widows: auto; word-spacing: 0px;"><br /></b>
<div dir="ltr" style="line-height: 1.38; margin-bottom: 0pt; margin-top: 0pt;">
<span style="background-color: transparent; color: black; font-family: Arial; font-size: 11pt; font-style: normal; font-variant-caps: normal; font-variant-east-asian: normal; font-variant-ligatures: normal; font-variant-position: normal; font-weight: 400; text-decoration: none; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;">President Ballard taught in a CES devotional way back in 2014: "The Church of Jesus Christ of Latter-day Saints believes that 'the experience of same-sex attraction is a complex reality for many people. The attraction itself is not a sin, but acting on it is. Even though </span><span style="background-color: transparent; color: black; font-family: Arial; font-size: 11pt; font-style: italic; font-variant-caps: normal; font-variant-east-asian: normal; font-variant-ligatures: normal; font-variant-position: normal; font-weight: 700; text-decoration: none; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;">individuals do not choose to have such attractions</span><span style="background-color: transparent; color: black; font-family: Arial; font-size: 11pt; font-style: normal; font-variant-caps: normal; font-variant-east-asian: normal; font-variant-ligatures: normal; font-variant-position: normal; font-weight: 400; text-decoration: none; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;">, they do choose how to respond to them. With love and understanding, the Church reaches out to all God’s children, including [those with same-sex attraction] (emphasis added).'” This is a complex reality. This isn’t a choice. We should be reaching out in love to God’s LGBT children. From my experience, the truths taught by President Ballard are not yet understood by many in the Church. This is a problem. </span></div>
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<table cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="float: left; margin-right: 1em; text-align: left;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://1.bp.blogspot.com/-fPk7hdWwgzA/Xa4eE4MJK1I/AAAAAAAABwc/ayyr3PPxTEIjz3qtu5jWJhxhz6H0IINWQCLcBGAsYHQ/s1600/Law%2Bschool.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1200" data-original-width="1600" height="240" src="https://1.bp.blogspot.com/-fPk7hdWwgzA/Xa4eE4MJK1I/AAAAAAAABwc/ayyr3PPxTEIjz3qtu5jWJhxhz6H0IINWQCLcBGAsYHQ/s320/Law%2Bschool.jpg" width="320" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">A very flattering picture of me giving a presentation</td></tr>
</tbody></table>
<div dir="ltr" style="line-height: 1.38; margin-bottom: 0pt; margin-top: 0pt;">
<span style="background-color: transparent; color: black; font-family: Arial; font-size: 11pt; font-style: normal; font-variant-caps: normal; font-variant-east-asian: normal; font-variant-ligatures: normal; font-variant-position: normal; font-weight: 400; text-decoration: none; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;">I speak about my experience as a gay Latter-day Saint a lot. Fifth Sunday lessons, firesides, trainings, class presentations, this blog. After these events someone will often approach me and say, “I came here today thinking that being gay is a choice. Now I know that it’s not. Thank you.” And then something else happens, but much less frequently. Later that night or the following day I’ll get an email from someone who attended. They’ll tell me that they learned so much from my fireside and thank me for my time. Then they’ll tell me that the Atonement can do anything. That if I just believe enough God will help me to live a happy life. That I can be married to a woman in this life and have a family and be truly happy. I always respond by thanking them for taking the time to write because I know that it comes from a place of sincere kindness. And then, if I have the energy, I’ll respond and try to let them walk in my shoes a bit.</span></div>
<b style="-webkit-text-size-adjust: auto; -webkit-text-stroke-width: 0px; caret-color: rgb(0, 0, 0); color: black; font-family: -webkit-standard; font-style: normal; font-variant-caps: normal; font-weight: normal; letter-spacing: normal; orphans: auto; text-align: start; text-decoration: none; text-indent: 0px; text-transform: none; white-space: normal; widows: auto; word-spacing: 0px;"><br /></b>
<div dir="ltr" style="line-height: 1.38; margin-bottom: 0pt; margin-top: 0pt;">
<span style="background-color: transparent; color: black; font-family: Arial; font-size: 11pt; font-style: normal; font-variant-caps: normal; font-variant-east-asian: normal; font-variant-ligatures: normal; font-variant-position: normal; font-weight: 400; text-decoration: none; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;">Last week I spoke at a YSA stake FHE. After telling <a href="http://benschilaty.blogspot.com/2015/01/post-2-charity-love-of-parents.html">the story of my birth</a>, I said: “I tell this story because people often ask me if I was born gay. I don’t think that’s the right question. I think a better question is, did I come to earth the way God intended me to be? I know that I did. And I believe you came to earth the way God intended you to be, too.” It’s a beautiful thing to feel that you are the way your Heavenly Parents want you to be. And yet, all of us need to change. We all need to be better versions of ourselves. All of us can more fully develop Christlike attributes. </span></div>
<b style="-webkit-text-size-adjust: auto; -webkit-text-stroke-width: 0px; caret-color: rgb(0, 0, 0); color: black; font-family: -webkit-standard; font-style: normal; font-variant-caps: normal; font-weight: normal; letter-spacing: normal; orphans: auto; text-align: start; text-decoration: none; text-indent: 0px; text-transform: none; white-space: normal; widows: auto; word-spacing: 0px;"><br /></b>
<div dir="ltr" style="line-height: 1.38; margin-bottom: 0pt; margin-top: 0pt;">
<span style="background-color: transparent; color: black; font-family: Arial; font-size: 11pt; font-style: normal; font-variant-caps: normal; font-variant-east-asian: normal; font-variant-ligatures: normal; font-variant-position: normal; font-weight: 400; text-decoration: none; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;">Last week a gay friend and I shared our stories at another friend’s house. Then we let people ask us questions. My friend and I talked about the <a href="http://benschilaty.blogspot.com/2015/11/a-line-in-sand.html">November 2015 policy</a> for a few minutes until someone raised his hand to interrupt us to say, “I’m sorry, I don’t know what the November 2015 policy is.” Then someone else said, “Yeah, I’m not sure what you’re talking about.” I was stunned, quite frankly, that this thing that has affected my life so intensely wasn’t even on their radar. The events of November 5, 2015 are seared into my memory and I spent the next four years talking about them regularly. Why didn’t these people know what the November 2015 policy was? Because it didn’t affect them. It wasn’t about them.</span></div>
<b style="-webkit-text-size-adjust: auto; -webkit-text-stroke-width: 0px; caret-color: rgb(0, 0, 0); color: black; font-family: -webkit-standard; font-style: normal; font-variant-caps: normal; font-weight: normal; letter-spacing: normal; orphans: auto; text-align: start; text-decoration: none; text-indent: 0px; text-transform: none; white-space: normal; widows: auto; word-spacing: 0px;"><br /></b>
<div dir="ltr" style="line-height: 1.38; margin-bottom: 0pt; margin-top: 0pt;">
<span style="background-color: transparent; color: black; font-family: Arial; font-size: 11pt; font-style: normal; font-variant-caps: normal; font-variant-east-asian: normal; font-variant-ligatures: normal; font-variant-position: normal; font-weight: 400; text-decoration: none; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;">I want conversion therapy to stop. I think for that to happen, members of our community need to really listen to the LGBT people among us and understand our lives and stories. We need to really get to know the people in our lives. Not so we can change them, but because knowing them will change us. If all parents believed that being LGBT isn’t a choice or a phase, then no one would be sending their kids to conversion therapy. Zion is a people of one heart and one mind, a people where we truly see into one another’s hearts and minds. When my parents saw into my heart, they knew conversion therapy was the wrong course for me. I like how <a href="https://www.churchofjesuschrist.org/study/general-conference/2015/10/behold-thy-mother?lang=eng">Elder Holland</a> put it in October 2015. Speaking of a mother's gay son he said, "And, I must say, this son's sexual orientation did not somehow miraculously change--no one assumed it would. But little by little, his heart changed."</span></div>
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<br /></div>
<div dir="ltr" style="line-height: 1.38; margin-bottom: 0pt; margin-top: 0pt;">
<span style="background-color: transparent; color: black; font-family: Arial; font-size: 11pt; font-style: normal; font-variant-caps: normal; font-variant-east-asian: normal; font-variant-ligatures: normal; font-variant-position: normal; font-weight: 400; text-decoration: none; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;">I hope that we will all take time to build Zion by getting to know and understand people who are different than us. I hope that we can listen with a Christlike curiosity. I hope that those who feel marginalized will feel empowered to share their stories and safe enough to do so. I will do everything I can in my sphere of influence to teach and educate anyone who is willing to listen and understand. I am grateful for the many LGBT Latter-day Saints who are sharing their stories with those in their circles of influence. I know that not everyone has the ability to do that like I do. We end conversion therapy by helping people understand our lives. </span></div>
<b style="-webkit-text-size-adjust: auto; -webkit-text-stroke-width: 0px; caret-color: rgb(0, 0, 0); color: black; font-family: -webkit-standard; font-style: normal; font-variant-caps: normal; font-weight: normal; letter-spacing: normal; orphans: auto; text-align: start; text-decoration: none; text-indent: 0px; text-transform: none; white-space: normal; widows: auto; word-spacing: 0px;"><br /></b>
<table cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="float: right; margin-left: 1em; text-align: right;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://1.bp.blogspot.com/-4DbBV3YnIkE/Xa4eU01VLhI/AAAAAAAABwk/vpZcfIslre46KRC6jgSHQGyCT9mKnSaNgCEwYBhgL/s1600/3937BBE1-BE80-4946-8881-C2577C0AF3C0_1_105_c.jpeg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" data-original-height="506" data-original-width="750" height="215" src="https://1.bp.blogspot.com/-4DbBV3YnIkE/Xa4eU01VLhI/AAAAAAAABwk/vpZcfIslre46KRC6jgSHQGyCT9mKnSaNgCEwYBhgL/s320/3937BBE1-BE80-4946-8881-C2577C0AF3C0_1_105_c.jpeg" width="320" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Tucson was Zion for me</td></tr>
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<div dir="ltr" style="line-height: 1.38; margin-bottom: 0pt; margin-top: 0pt;">
<span style="background-color: transparent; color: black; font-family: Arial; font-size: 11pt; font-style: normal; font-variant-caps: normal; font-variant-east-asian: normal; font-variant-ligatures: normal; font-variant-position: normal; font-weight: 400; text-decoration: none; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;">Usually when I give a presentation I quote <a href="https://www.churchofjesuschrist.org/study/scriptures/bofm/alma/33?lang=eng">Alma 33:23</a> and then say, “I used to think the Atonement of Jesus Christ was supposed to make me straight, but instead it healed my broken heart.” Let’s focus on what is broken and work as a community to heal. Broken things like feelings of intense shame, self-loathing, and wishing that death would come soon can be healed. I experienced all of these. After years and years of sincerely trying to change my orientation, I didn’t experience even a small change. But I have learned to be happy and thrive in my God-given circumstances. Good therapy can do that. Good therapy can help people to thrive. But it wasn’t therapy that cured me of my self-loathing. It was being in a community of people who loved me, accepted me, and sincerely sought to understand me. And that community was a community of active Latter-day Saints. It was a community of people that I call Zion. </span></div>
<br class="Apple-interchange-newline" />Benhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/04151204932376899998noreply@blogger.com13tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7565469030539917833.post-89119321853438415802019-09-25T06:51:00.000-07:002019-09-25T07:14:07.339-07:00The Place Where I Found the Courage to Be Me<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<a href="https://1.bp.blogspot.com/-Nc2l6drtzsk/XYrv_QscsrI/AAAAAAAABvk/R164e8dfEycrl4JMahWFcDQb_msE2fa7QCEwYBhgL/s1600/LmaGN1VZRp6faRX%252BhibiGQ.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1200" data-original-width="1600" height="150" src="https://1.bp.blogspot.com/-Nc2l6drtzsk/XYrv_QscsrI/AAAAAAAABvk/R164e8dfEycrl4JMahWFcDQb_msE2fa7QCEwYBhgL/s200/LmaGN1VZRp6faRX%252BhibiGQ.jpg" width="200" /></a></div>
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Last year after giving a presentation at BYU on the LGBTQ & SSA student experience at BYU, a professor came up to me and asked what it was that made me love Tucson so much. I said, “Tucson is beautiful. It’s basically surrounded by national and state parks. But I love it because of the people. Some of the finest people on the planet live in Tucson. And it’s the first place I was able to be myself.” </div>
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I’ll be giving a fireside in Tucson this coming Sunday and I’m super pumped about it. Not only because I’ll get to see some wonderful friends, but because I’ll get to talk about my faith in the place where it really matured. If you're in the area, I'd love to see you. 7:00 pm at 939 W Chapala Dr, Tucson, AZ. <br />
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Tucson is the first place that I was asked to talk openly about my sexual orientation. Brother Bauer asked me to take ten minutes of our Institute class to share my story with a dozen of my classmates. I had no idea then that I would talk to way more people in the coming years.<br />
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<table cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="float: left; margin-right: 1em; text-align: left;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://1.bp.blogspot.com/-hgxef4YX0CA/XYr2ZzJBs1I/AAAAAAAABwE/XqyxRtarDk45tMtOw-LK9wG2hKKTIq0-wCEwYBhgL/s1600/Tucson%2Bfriends.png" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" data-original-height="492" data-original-width="682" height="143" src="https://1.bp.blogspot.com/-hgxef4YX0CA/XYr2ZzJBs1I/AAAAAAAABwE/XqyxRtarDk45tMtOw-LK9wG2hKKTIq0-wCEwYBhgL/s200/Tucson%2Bfriends.png" width="200" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">What family looks like</td></tr>
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Tucson is the place where I first gave a talk about my faith and my sexuality. W<span style="text-align: center;">hen I walked up to the pulpit I said, “I was asked to give a talk about my experiences as a gay member of the Church, but I’m actually here to talk about the Atonement of Jesus Christ.” Later in the talk I first uttered a phrase that I have now repeated many hundreds of times: “I used to think the Atonement of Jesus Christ was supposed to make me straight, but instead it healed my broken heart.” </span></div>
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<span style="text-align: center;"><br /></span></div>
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<span style="text-align: center;">Tucson is the place where I started I support group for LGBTQ Latter-day Saints. And the members of that group became my family. I still think that’s the best thing I’ve ever done. I did it for others, but I really needed those people in my life. </span><br />
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Tucson is the place where I learned that I wouldn’t be treated differently if people knew I was gay. <br />
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Tucson is the place where leaders stuck their necks out for me in order to elevate my voice. <br />
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Tucson is the place where I first came out to ward members. I hadn’t planned it, but I told the whole Elders Quorum while teaching a lesson. A member of the bishopric told me months later that he watched me closely after the lesson ended. He said that I let out a deep sigh when I sat in my chair and that he saw a visible weight lift off of me. <br />
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Tucson is the place where I learned that I could be openly gay and still be trusted to hold a prominent calling.<br />
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Tucson is the place where I learned that sharing my story was empowering to others. </div>
<table cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="float: right; margin-left: 1em; text-align: right;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://1.bp.blogspot.com/-XqrO3fYdPcc/XYrvdbTZC5I/AAAAAAAABvc/oFxtOqqoeSY7G5ZCD0gtC1qQY0FMr8NsQCEwYBhgL/s1600/IMG_6578.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1200" data-original-width="1600" height="150" src="https://1.bp.blogspot.com/-XqrO3fYdPcc/XYrvdbTZC5I/AAAAAAAABvc/oFxtOqqoeSY7G5ZCD0gtC1qQY0FMr8NsQCEwYBhgL/s200/IMG_6578.JPG" width="200" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">The Minches</td></tr>
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Tucson is the place where I met the baby who was middle named after me.<br />
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Tucson is the place where I almost left the Church. On a day when I just couldn’t sit in church and was ready to storm out, my friend sitting next to me told me not to go. She said, “Just come to Primary with me today.” I spent two hours sitting on a chair that was too small singing Primary songs in Spanish. And my heart healed and I knew I needed to stay. <br />
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Tucson is the place that I learned that my anger damaged me and other people. And that I needed to apologize when my frustrations got the better of me. And that I needed to be patient with others when their frustrations got the better of them. <br />
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Tucson is the place where I was shown so much kindness after coming out. Where I came out to my whole congregation unexpectedly and then my branch president hugged me in front of everyone and told them I was his hero. </div>
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Tucson is the place where I stopped making decisions based on fear. </div>
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Tucson is the place where I came out to my new ward and I received messages from strangers who would become dear friends telling me they loved me and wanted me in their congregation. </div>
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Tucson is the place where I learned to trust God’s plan for me, even if it meant leaving a place that I loved so much to move to a state that I didn’t want to live in to get yet another degree. </div>
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Tucson is the place that has most felt like Zion to me. My last Sunday in the city the Tucson Arizona Temple was dedicated. I drove my dear friend Georgina to the dedication and we both cried as we waved white handkerchiefs in the air and shouted “Hosanna!”</div>
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A few days later I had my last dinner in Tucson at Kevin’s parents’ house. I’d had dinner there hundreds of times during the five years I lived there. I had envisioned the moment that I would walk away from their house by myself and close their gate behind me for the last time as a regular visitor. I imagined I would burst into tears because I so didn’t want to leave. But when the time came to <br />
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actually walk away, I felt my shoulders square and, instead of being filled with sadness, I closed the gate behind me filled with gratitude and peace. </div>
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The next morning I drove away from the city with my car stuffed with my belongings. The car that my dad had given me when I moved to Tucson because he didn’t want my old car to break down in the middle of the desert. As the sun came over the mountains I once again felt peace and gratitude. I said an audible “Thank you” to the place that had done so much for me and I drove on to the next adventure. <br />
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I hope that everyone has or will have a place that was like Tucson for me. A place where you’re loved and encouraged to grow. A place where you’re celebrated for having the courage to be you.<br />
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Tucson is also the place where I learned the correct pronunciation of the word <i>saguaro</i>. And what a beautiful word it is! </div>
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Benhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/04151204932376899998noreply@blogger.com5tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7565469030539917833.post-61331149016813732402019-09-18T12:54:00.003-07:002019-09-18T12:54:58.225-07:00The Greatest Law is Love<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
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Just over a year ago I participated on an LGBT themed panel at the BYU Religious Freedom Review. During the session a man asked the panel a question that was a bit triggering for me (it was actually more of a long comment than a question). My friend Steve, who was sitting next to me, knows me very well and knew that this question would be hard for me to hear. Steve put his hand on my knee while this man was talking as if to say, “I got you. I’m here with you.” It was such an amazingly simple and kind thing for him to do. <o:p></o:p></div>
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Yesterday I had different and yet parallel experience in the BYU Marriott Center. President Nelson spoke of the love of God and His laws. Some of what he said was hard to hear. No one put their hand on my knee, but the moment after thousands of people said, “Amen,” my friend Stacey turned to me and asked, “How are you doing, Ben?” knowing that I likely wasn’t okay. Once again, a simple and kind thing for her to do. </div>
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When President Nelson walked into the room before the devotional I felt a wave of the Spirit. I’ve had that same feeling in similar settings many times. And I had <a href="http://benschilaty.blogspot.com/2019/04/reconciling-changed-policy.html">a very profound experience</a> 18 months ago when the Spirit taught me that he is God’s prophet today. His talk was unsurprisingly very polarizing. I saw people online say that it was beautiful and wonderful and perfect and full of love. I saw other people say that it was hurtful and unkind and another blow to LGBT Latter-day Saints. I walked out of the Marriott Center still sorting through my feelings and feeling pretty unsettled. </div>
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Much of the talk really resonated with me. I believe that God gives us laws because He loves us. I’ve seen the positive fruits of living those laws. I’m so grateful that President Nelson said the words <i>gay, lesbian</i>, and <i>LBGT </i>so many times instead of saying “’so called’ gays and lesbians” like I used to hear. It was refreshing to hear the prophet use the term I use to describe myself. I love that President Nelson invited us to seek our own confirmation that he and the other apostles are God’s prophets. I’ve done that and I believe that they are. I’m also grateful that he shared how Church leaders saw the pain caused by the November 2015 policy and that they wept with us. Because my goodness, those were tough days. (Here’s a <a href="http://benschilaty.blogspot.com/2015/11/a-line-in-sand.html">post</a> I wrote about that day back in 2015.) I’ve done a lot of things in my life out of love that ended up causing pain to others. Being motivated by love doesn’t always mean that that love is felt or received or immediately leads to the best course of action. </div>
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I walked out of the Marriott Center not feeling mad or angry. I didn’t feel happy or joyful either. I felt sort of neutral. I saw students holding hands as they walked back to class and I heard people say how amazing the talk was. As I shuffled along in the crowd of thousands I felt very alone, wondering if anyone else had experienced that talk the way I had. I realized that I felt dismissed. In a talk that was largely about LGBT folks I didn’t really find myself as an active, gay member of the Church mentioned in it. I totally understand that not every talk is about me, but this one felt like it could have been. <o:p></o:p></div>
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The content of the talk wasn’t hard for me, but the reactions to the talk were. It felt like some students who had attended were saying, “All is well in Zion; yea, Zion prospereth.” And I wished that President Nelson had quoted President Ballard who two years ago from the same pulpit said, “We need to listen to and understand what our LGBT brothers and sisters are feeling and experiencing. Certainly we must do better than we have done in the past so that all members feel they have a spiritual home where their brothers and sisters love them and where they have a place to worship and serve the Lord.” Certainly we must do better because all is not well with the Church’s LGBT members. And I worried that so many BYU students walked away feeling good about themselves and the Church’s position instead of feeling called to love and listen and understand better. That weighed on my heart. <o:p></o:p></div>
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I went on a walk a few hours after the talk to just clear my head. I prayed and asked for clarity. Then some of the words of the hymn we sang at the beginning of the devotional flooded into my heart. “We’ve proved [the Lord] in days that are past.” I’ve see too much of God in my past to have any doubt that He’ll be there in the future as well. “And we know that deliv’rance is nigh.” This line caused me to pause and consider what I’m hoping to be delivered from. I used to want to be delivered from being gay, but instead I was delivered from shame and self-loathing. I nearly started to cry as I walked along a brick path on Maeser Hill, remembering how dark my life used to feel and how bright it feels now. Then I thought of what happened this past Sunday. <o:p></o:p></div>
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I gave a lesson in a wonderful ward in Salt Lake about how to minister to LGBT members of the Church and I shared much of my own story. Every personal story I shared was tied to a gospel principle and the counsel I gave came directly from Church resources. It was a beautiful and sacred experience. However, knowing that some people would be uncomfortable with my message, the bishopric arranged an alternative Sunday School class for those who didn’t want to come to my lesson. How would you feel if you were invited to talk about your life and your faith and an alternate class was offered because some people would feel uncomfortable with what you had to say? The deliverance I am hoping for now is deliverance from ignorance and misunderstanding. I’m looking forward to the day when I can be seen as I am and when my life and my choices aren’t triggering to members of my Church. </div>
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When I got back from my walk I did some work, but was still really in my head. I just felt a little off. Towards the end of the day one of my new colleagues knocked on my door and asked if we could talk about my reaction to President Nelson’s devotional. I hadn’t quite articulated it in my own mind, but that is what I had been wanting all afternoon, someone to just sit with me and ask what I was feeling. </div>
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We talked for more than 20 minutes and I just opened up my heart to Darren whom I’ve known only professionally and only for a few weeks. I told him that exaltation, as I understand it, doesn’t sound like heaven to me. The idea that I’ll be married to a woman for all eternity and perpetually have children just doesn’t sound that appealing. I admitted that I see through a glass darkly and that I really have no concept of what exaltation looks like. And so, I press forward on the covenant path unsure of what the destination will be like, but trusting it’s a destination that I want to arrive at. I told him that I often feel treated like a broken heterosexual, that I just need to be patient and faithful and someday I’ll be “fixed.” And he listened and he empathized and he asked questions. And I felt delivered from some of the weight I’d been carrying that afternoon. It’s an interesting thing that a devotional that left so many feeling light left me feeling weighed down. <o:p></o:p></div>
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This post may feel a little disjointed with stories that might not seem to connect, and I’m sorry about that. For me as a gay Latter-day, whenever LGBT topics are discussed by a high-ranking Church leader I don’t experience that talk in isolation. Previous talks and life experiences all percolate together which is why I likely experienced yesterday’s talk differently than many straight members did. <o:p></o:p></div>
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Next month I will raise my arm to sustain Russell M. Nelson as a prophet and I am looking forward to being able to do so. And I have no doubt, that if President Nelson had been sitting next to me yesterday during the devotional he would’ve put his hand on my knee to say, “I got you. I’m here with you.” I just wish those words could've been explicitly said from the pulpit to LGBT BYU students who so desperately want to know that they belong. I’m grateful for his reminder yesterday to follow the laws of God because that is something I earnestly strive to do. And what greater law is there than the commandment to love God and love our neighbor? I don’t know how you’ll live the law of love, but I have no doubt that you will strive to do so. Steve, Stacey, and Darren lived the law of love by being present with me, sincerely asking me how I’m doing, and seeking to understand me. Love was what I needed to feel yesterday and I felt it from my friends. <o:p></o:p></div>
Benhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/04151204932376899998noreply@blogger.com20tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7565469030539917833.post-47587064489305620672019-09-02T22:46:00.000-07:002019-09-03T06:45:14.608-07:00The Gift My Mom Forgot to Give Me<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
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As I write this post it is my mom’s 71<sup>st </sup>birthday. Three years ago she was diagnosed with Alzheimer’s the day before her birthday. Two years after her diagnosis I was visiting home. I wanted to get some details about <a href="http://benschilaty.blogspot.com/2015/01/post-2-charity-love-of-parents.html">the story of my birth</a> from her while I still could. While the two of us were walking along the Stillaguamish River at Cascade Park I asked her some questions. She didn’t seem to know what I was talking about and just gave some rambling, nonsensical answers. It felt like the memories were all gone and I’d have to rely on my own memory of what I’d already been told. </div>
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At church the next day I saw Becky who has been friends with my parents for decades. At the time my mom was pregnant with me Becky was her visiting teacher. I approached her after church and asked if I could ask her some questions about my birth. She responded, “You know, Ben, it’s the craziest thing. Just a few days ago I had a feeling you’d ask me.” That week my parents and I walked over to Becky’s house and had a 30-minute conversation with her that I recorded. She gave me permission to share the stories she told. <o:p></o:p></div>
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The remarkable thing about the stories that Becky told was that they matched perfectly with my dad’s memory of the events, and with what I’d been told by my mom before. Becky told stories of the sacrifices that were made during the 45 days that my mom was on bedrest in the hospital trying to keep me alive. She told of a woman from the ward who visited my mom in Seattle every day. She told of sisters in the ward who would rotate bringing the family food. She told of Relief Society sisters who would come over to clean the house and my dad would say that he could handle things on his own only to have them politely push by him and clean anyway. She told of two sisters who regularly drove my three siblings all the way to Seattle from Everett so they could visit my mom, allowing my dad to get some sleep. She told of my dad’s courage and all the sacrifices he made to keep the family together. My dad said that Becky literally saved my life. Always humble, Becky said, “It was a community effort.” So many ministering angels helped my family out. Too many stories to tell in this post.<o:p></o:p></div>
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As the conversation ended I asked if there was anything else she wanted to say. She added that during the 45 days my mom was in the hospital that she did a cross stitch of a woman praying. My mom had tried to give it to the Relief Society to thank them for all they had done to help the family, but Becky wouldn’t let her. She was worried that as time passed people would forget who had given it to the ward and why. She told my mom, “Save it for your kids for when they’re big. Save it for Ben. That’s your story to keep.” Then she told me, “Find that stitchery thing. That’s yours. That’s your story.” <o:p></o:p></div>
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I had no idea where this cross stitch was. My sisters-in-law had been helping my dad organize the house so I told them about it in case they came across it. I started looking through random boxes hoping to find it. I wasn’t even sure it still existed or if we’d ever find it. And then I walked into one of the bedrooms and there it was on the wall. How many thousands of times had I seen it without having the faintest idea of what it meant or the stories it told? I took a picture of it and sent it to Becky to ask if this was the stitchery she was talking about. She replied, “Yes!! That’s it!” </div>
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Last week I had this intense desire to get this cross stitch and hang it up in my office. It’s something that I want to see often. I sat in my living room last week thinking about this creation of my mom’s and how I had seen it so many times without understanding it’s profound meaning. I walked to my living room window where I have a great view of the mountains and I asked myself, “What message am I missing in this creation?” I wondered what messages of love and sacrifice there are all around that I just don’t see yet. I wondered what message of love and sacrifice there is in a smashed piece of bread and tiny cup of water. I worry that I miss that message more often than not. I feel like I miss so much. I want to be able to see the messages in creation that are all around me. </div>
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When I look at the woman praying, I think of Becky. When she found out that my mom had Alzheimer's she started dropping off dinner at my parents' house every Saturday. No one asked her to do it, she just does it. Charity never faileth.</div>
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Today on the phone I told my dad that I’d like to take the cross stitch home with me to Utah after my next visit to their house. He said that was a great idea. I want to hang it in my office and see if every day. It won’t be the prettiest piece of art in my office aesthetically, but it is something that my mom created while she was sacrificing to save me. She made those stitches as her muscles atrophied so much that my dad had to carry her into our house when she came home. It represents her selfless sacrifice and her willingness to give up her life for mine. And yet, that's not the only story it tells. It represents the people who stepped up and ministered to my family in their time of need. What could be more beautiful than that? <o:p></o:p></div>
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Benhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/04151204932376899998noreply@blogger.com5tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7565469030539917833.post-37972044227486157012019-08-18T08:09:00.000-07:002019-08-18T10:01:56.980-07:00Spiritual Nudges<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
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<i>Below is the text of a talk I gave at my stake conference last night. </i><br />
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I am an optimist by nature. In spiritual terms, I was given the gift of hope. While I believe that in my case much of the hope I experience is indeed a gift from my Heavenly Parents, it is also the result of many experiences. As the hymn <i>Be Still, My Soul </i>beautifully teaches: “Be still, my soul: Thy God doth undertake / To guide the future as he has the past / Thy hope, thy confidence let nothing shake / All now mysterious shall be bright at last.” <br />
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At the age of 30 it felt like my life was over. How could I ever be happy as a gay Latter-day Saint? The future didn’t just feel mysterious, it felt bleak and hopeless. I spent some precious moments with my parents discussing my options and much time praying and searching the scriptures. If you had told me then, five years ago, that I’d be where I am now and doing what I’m doing, and that I’d be loving life more than ever before, I would have said you were crazy. A happy, thriving life just didn’t seem possible. There was no big revelation. No moment when my future was unfolded before my eyes. As the Lord said: “I will give unto the children of men line upon line, precept upon precept, here a little and there a little…” (2 Nephi 28:30). My path has been guided by small nudges of the Spirit, often facilitated by the counsel of loved ones, that pushed me in the right direction. <br />
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Almost three years ago I was beginning the final year of a PhD program at the University of Arizona in Tucson. I started looking for jobs as a Spanish professor which is what I had trained to do. Every time I searched for jobs I felt sick to my stomach. Then one day my friend Reyna asked me to proofread a letter of intent she had written for a master’s in social work program. As I read the letter I felt an undeniable nudge from the Spirit to also pursue a master’s in social work. It was odd and unexpected. I drove two hours to the Gilbert, AZ temple to seek inspiration and felt the Spirit confirm within those sacred walls what I had already felt in my home—I needed to do a master’s in social work at BYU. <br />
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It was a very embarrassing thing to do, to get a PhD in one field and then immediately get a master’s in another. People accused me (in jest, I hope) of being an eternal student and not knowing what I wanted to do with my life. But that wasn’t it at all. I was simply obeying what I had felt prompted to do. <br />
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The last two years since I started and finished my MSW at BYU have been two of the most remarkable years of my life. The experiences I’ve had, the people I’ve met, and the things I have learned are well worth the embarrassment I felt, the rigorous assignments, the boring readings, and the tuition I paid. God guided me to the place I needed to be. As Proverbs 3 teaches: “Trust in the Lord with all thine heart; and lean not unto thine own understanding. In all they ways acknowledge him, and he shall direct thy paths” (Proverbs 3:5-6). <br />
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In August 2017, the week before I moved to Provo, the Church expanded who was eligible to volunteer as a temple ordinance worker. The expansion included single men over 30 like me. I had wanted to be a temple worker for years, but had always rationalized that I was too busy and would do it later. At the age of 33 I called my dad who had spent 11 years as an ordinance worker in the Seattle temple. He is an incredibly pragmatic man so when I asked him if I should work in the temple while also doing a full-time master’s program at BYU I expected him to say, “You don’t have time right now. Focus on your studies. You can be a temple worker later.” But that’s not what he said. He went <br />
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into teaching mode and instructed me, “Ben, God can do anything. He can make time elastic if He needs to. If you put Him first you will be able to do everything you need to do and more. You don’t have the time to notwork in the temple.” I listened to my father’s nudge and spent 20 months as an ordinance worker in the Provo Temple. Tuesday evenings became one of my favorite times of the week. There were multiple weeks that I walked up to the temple thinking that I would tell my shift coordinator that I needed to be released because I didn’t have time, and then while I served the Spirit would nudge me to stay. And I’d walk out of the temple with my shoulders squared, invigorated and ready to face another week. I needed that time in the temple. My dad was exactly right. <br />
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As the Savior taught in the Sermon on the Mount: “Behold the fowls of the air: for they sow not, neither do they reap, nor gather into barns; yet your heavenly Father feedeth them. Are ye not much better than they?” That is a comforting and humorously delivered teaching. God takes care of birds and so he’ll surely take care of us because we’re better than birds. So if you ever feel bad about yourself, just remember that you’re better than birds. <br />
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When we listen to inspired Church leaders we will often feel spiritual nudges. I was recently reading President Nelson’s talk from the priesthood session of General Conference about repentance. He encouraged, “Experience the strengthening power of daily repentance—of doing and being a little better each day.” He continued, “The Lord does not expect perfection from us at this point in our eternal progression. But He does expect us to become increasingly pure.” When I read these lines I thought, what can I do to be a little better today? And then the answer came—make your bed. Such a small nudge, but I committed to do it. <br />
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The next morning I woke up barely lucid which is pretty normal for me (I’m not a morning person at all), but I remembered my goal. I was in a rush to get ready and get out of the house, but I said to myself, “No, you committed to making your bed.” So I did. And I’ve done it every day since. My bedroom could hardly be considered tidy, but it’s tidier than it was before. And that little step is making me a better person, if only because I’m following through on a personal commitment. And the next nudge will do even more. <br />
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God will nudge us to serve each other. Last fall I was doing an internship at LDS Family Services in Salt Lake. The commute was long and I was gone for most of the day. One morning I made my lunch and accidently left in on the kitchen counter. That day was harder than usual and I was feeling inadequate at work. And then I realized I’d left my lunch at home. I kicked myself for being so careless and felt so stupid. One of my coworkers was there when I noticed I hadn’t brought my lunch. Without telling me, she drove ten minutes to her apartment, made me a sandwich, filled up a bag with baby carrots, and grabbed a bag of cookies. At lunch time Amy gave me this sweet gift. Making lunch for me was such a small thing, but it changed my day. She had felt nudged by the Spirit to do a good deed. And while the lunch literally fed me, what really fed me was knowing that I was seen, and noticed, and cared for. <br />
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I’m in the middle of reading Saints, the newly released history of the Church, and I came across a story that was just bonkers. Heber C. Kimball and Willard Richards were on a mission in England. Heber was married, and Willard, despite being 33 was not (I can totally relate). Heber met and baptized a woman named Jennetta Richards (no relation to Willard Richards). Heber wrote Willard in a letter, “I baptized your wife today.” Quite a bold thing for him to say about someone Willard had never met. But things only get bolder. Willard later met Jennetta in person and while walking to a Church meeting with her said, “Richards is a good name. I never want to change it. Do you, Jennetta?” She replied, “No, I do not. And I think I never will.” They soon got married. A bold statement from Heber was the nudge that helped to unite Willard and Jennetta. <br />
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The people who have nudged me in the right direction have altered the course of my life, and I’m so grateful for them. But just because someone nudges you in a direction doesn’t mean it’s the right thing. I’ve had people recommend wives and careers and housing and lots of life choices that I didn’t take. The Holy Ghost will confirm to us when counsel or guidance or a simple nudge are the right course. The key is to be connected enough to Heaven that we can discern which direction to take. <br />
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Our Exemplar, Jesus Christ, showed us how to follow promptings. He said over and over again that He was about His Father’s business and doing His Father’s will. I’ve been keeping up with the Come, Follow Me reading this year which has greatly blessed my life. I’ve learned things and noticed things that I’d never seen before. <br />
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In Matthew 26 the Savior is in the Garden of Gethsemane. He prayed, “O my Father, if it be possible, let this cup pass from me: nevertheless, not as I will, but as thou wilt.” And then a few verses later He prayed a second time, “O my Father, if this cup may not pass away from me, except I drink it, they will be done.” And then two verses later it says that the Savior gave the same prayer a third time. I had never noticed that the Savior made that plea and promise to His Father three separate times. It’s very human to not want to do the hard thing, but it’s a Christlike attribute to do it anyway. <br />
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This example of the Savior and His ability to choose to do the Father’s will, even though it would be hard, gives me courage. Because God has asked me to do some truly hard things. And when times of decision come, and I feel nudged in different directions, I try to connect with God and go in the direction that He is calling me to go. <br />
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I have seen a lot of this beautiful world and interacted with some of the finest people in it. I’ve had a life filled with joy and I often marvel at how I got to be so lucky. I’ve had some truly stellar moments. But the best feeling I’ve ever had is when I ascertain the will of God and then have the courage to do it. That is truly the best feeling. <br />
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I testify that God is watching over us. He knows our needs. I believe that at some future day, and maybe not until the next life, I’ll look back on my life and say, “Oh, so that’s how He did it. That’s how God shaped me into the person He wanted me to be.” Our Heavenly Parents have guided our pasts and They will surely guide our futures. All that is now mysterious will make perfect sense. Jesus Christ lives. He is our Savior. And all of this is possible through Him. In the name of Jesus Christ. Amen. Benhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/04151204932376899998noreply@blogger.com6tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7565469030539917833.post-88151144067059957022019-08-05T13:41:00.001-07:002019-08-05T13:41:11.346-07:0012 Years Since Coming Out<div class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: Calibri, sans-serif; margin: 0in 0in 0.0001pt;">
August 12<sup>th </sup>marks the 12 year anniversary of my first coming out. I’ve told that story hundreds of times at Ally Nights, in one on one conversations, in trainings for church leaders, in firesides, lessons at church, class presentations, and <a href="http://benschilaty.blogspot.com/2015/01/post-1-time-to-be-honest-about-being-gay.html">on my blog</a>. I’ve told it so many times that it’s become a story I tell and the actual memory of the event has become a little obscured by the constant retelling. </div>
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<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Craig and I from that summer</td></tr>
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As August 12<sup>th </sup>approaches I started to wonder what that day was actually like in 2007. And if I had a video recording of that conversation, would it match how I tell the story? So I pulled out my journal and read what I wrote that day. Memories flooded in as I read my own handwritten words. I remembered the orange glow of the streetlight as we sat on the grass and talked. I remembered how about 15 minutes after coming out we started walking home. Mitch and Craig shifted the conversation back to more standard topics and I couldn't understand how they could do that so fast because my world had just changed so much and I still had so much I wanted to say. </div>
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I’m glad I took the time to write out what happened that day so that these memories could be preserved and rekindled. It was also nice to see that my telling matches what I recorded about the experience. Here’s what I wrote in my journal that day: <o:p></o:p></div>
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<i>August 12, 2007 Sunday</i></div>
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<i>I’m going to write about something that I hadn’t planned on writing about. I’ll write more about it later. For as long as I can remember I’ve been more attracted to boys than to girls. It sucks and I’d change things if I could. I will never act on it. I’ve been struggling with it on my own for a while and I decided that that wasn’t healthy and that I should tell some trusted friends about it. I’d decided to tell Craig and Joleen, but I kept chickening out. I finally decided that I’d tell Craig today. <o:p></o:p></i></div>
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<i> <o:p></o:p></i></div>
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<a href="https://1.bp.blogspot.com/-xWDUP4j-PkI/XUiSxmWuT5I/AAAAAAAABsM/butaXMlzAzgNUrgOY86SI4RChgzh7hYJACLcBGAs/s1600/MZA%252BzJnFQxaIOnT8YIJsJA.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1600" data-original-width="1200" height="320" src="https://1.bp.blogspot.com/-xWDUP4j-PkI/XUiSxmWuT5I/AAAAAAAABsM/butaXMlzAzgNUrgOY86SI4RChgzh7hYJACLcBGAs/s320/MZA%252BzJnFQxaIOnT8YIJsJA.jpg" width="240" /></a><i>I was talking to Mitch on the phone tonight and he wanted to hang out tonight because Emilie’s out of town. I dragged Craig along to visit Mitch and determined that I would tell them about my struggle with same-sex attraction (SSA). So we went on a walk and sat down in a park and I told them that I wanted to tell them something. At this point I was so nervous that I was feeling physically ill. I almost didn’t tell them, but I finally blurted out, “For as long as I can remember I’ve been more attracted to guys than girls.” I explained how I wasn’t going to act on it and how I wished I didn’t have it and how hard it was. Mitch spoke the most at first and asked what he could do to help. I said that he really couldn’t do anything except support me and let me share my feelings with him. Craig shared a lot of encouragement and advised me to read my patriarchal blessing and to speak with the bishop. I’ll do that. I also said how I hoped that he wouldn’t feel awkward knowing that his roommate was attracted to men. I don’t remember the words he said, but he basically said that he’d always be my friend and that this wouldn’t change anything between us. That’s what I needed to hear. <o:p></o:p></i></div>
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<i>I felt a big burden lifted off of my shoulders when I told them and I’m so grateful that they were understanding and supportive. I’m glad that I can discuss my problem with someone and that they will support me. I’m also glad that Craig still wants to be my roommate. </i><o:p></o:p></div>
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Benhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/04151204932376899998noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7565469030539917833.post-18686027089257238102019-07-15T09:57:00.000-07:002019-07-15T09:57:50.979-07:00Alzheimer's Sucks!<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
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I lost my cool when I was visiting my parents over Christmas. It was after 11 pm and when I went into my room to get ready for bed all my dirty clothes were gone. My mom had folded them and put them away in my dad’s dresser. “Mom, you really messed up. I just wanted to go to bed and now I have to deal with this.” She immediately started trying to fix the mess she’d caused. She grabbed random objects asking, “Is this what you’re looking for?” which easily could have been sweet, but just ticked me off. My mom had no idea what was going on, but she knew I was mad and she knew it was her fault. She looked so sad and my dad just hugged her and said, “Ginny, I love you so much. You are so kind and you didn’t do anything wrong.” I felt like garbage. <o:p></o:p></div>
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I calmed down, sat at the dining room table, and read 1 Corinthians 13: “Charity suffereth long, and is kind… is not easily provoked.” I hadn’t been kind and I had most definitely been easily provoked. The next morning I apologized to my mother for being unkind and she had no clue what I was talking about. She just told me she loved me. It then occurred to me that I could measure my integrity by the way I treat someone who would have no memory of how I treat her. <o:p></o:p></div>
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I made a commitment that I wouldn’t be unkind to my mom again, that I would be as patient as I previously thought I was. I spent two weeks at home in May and I did an excellent job (if I do say so myself). The two weeks I was home in July were a little harder. She kept taking my stuff and “putting things away.” Even some of the stuff I hid she found. It was a losing battle that I just gave up on. She’d come into my room wearing my clothes and I’d say, “Oh mom, that’s my shirt.” She’d then change, hand me the shirt she’d just been wearing while wearing a different shirt of mine. I mean, I don’t blame her. I have some rad t-shirts. But it was still maddening. And I’d say to myself, “Be kind, she doesn’t know what she’s doing. It’s just a shirt.”<o:p></o:p></div>
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My mom loves to help so much so I’d give her any tasks she can still do. I asked her to fold my laundry last week (which had been washed this time) and she was thrilled to help. She then dumped it all on the dirty floor. I said, “Mom, why’d you put my clothes on the floor?” And immediately I had the thought, “What’s more important? Your clothes or your mom’s feelings?” I then self-corrected and said, “Thank you so much for folding my laundry, mom. You’re so kind and helpful.” She smiled and said the most genuine “you’re welcome” a human being could utter. <o:p></o:p></div>
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I’m sure most parents have learned this lesson years ago, but I’m just learning that feelings are more important than my stuff. I told myself this a lot whenever I would start to get frustrated. “Mom’s feelings are more important than your clothes, Ben.” <o:p></o:p></div>
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When my mom was diagnosed with Alzheimer’s on September 1, 2016 I started to wrap my head around the reality that she would forget me and that we would have the same conversations over and over again. And for some reason I knew I could handle those moments. What I was completely unprepared for was that she would lose her ability to make any sense. The way my mom talks now is like if you repeatedly press the predictive text button on your phone. All the words will run together and flow, but they make no sense. That’s how my mom talks. I generally have no idea what she’s talking about because she uses so many pronouns without ever giving the antecedent. </div>
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On the 4<sup>th</sup>of July my mom mentioned wanting to do something so we went on a walk. Since we had just been on a trip to the beach I decided to talk about future trips while we walked. “Where would you like to go on our next trip?” Gibberish. “If you could see any place, what would you like to see?” More gibberish. “What places would you like to visit?” Completely unintelligible response. I almost began to cry right there on the sidewalk realizing that my mom, though present, was unable to have a conversation with me about vacations. <o:p></o:p></div>
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I pulled out my earbuds and put one in each of our ears and I played <a href="https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=oTeUdJky9rY">John Denver’s “Country Roads”</a> because my mom loves that song so much. As usual, she tried to sing along, but mostly just mumbled with a huge smile on her face. I love that song now, too, because it says <i>Virginia </i>(my mom’s name) and <i>momma </i>(no need to explain that word). I played some more songs and she would make comments, laugh a lot, and we did a bit of dancing as we walked down the street. When we got back to the car she said, “Already? I want to keep going.” She just really loves being with me even though she can’t explain where she wants to go on vacation.<o:p></o:p></div>
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I’ve come out to her a number of times because I think it’s fun. But it also makes me nervous because I don’t know how she’ll react. “Mom, I’m gay.” “You’re… gay…,” she says the words slowly trying to understand them. “What do you think about that?” I ask. “Well, as long as you’re happy and you get to do the things you like to do.” That’s what she always says, “Do the things you like to do.” She just wants everyone to be happy and do the things they like to do. “How was your day, mom?” “Well, it was a lot of fun. I just did the things I like to do.” <o:p></o:p></div>
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A few days ago we were on a walk at the marina. Since she’s not so good at answering questions I’ve started to just tell her things about her life and she’s always so delighted. <o:p></o:p></div>
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“Mom, did you know I’m your son?”<o:p></o:p></div>
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“Really?! My son?”<o:p></o:p></div>
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“Yep, you actually have four kids. I’m your baby and your favorite.” (If there’s one thing I’ll go to hell for it’ll be constantly messing with my mother and tricking her into saying that I’m her favorite child. I’ve only done it a few dozen times.)<o:p></o:p></div>
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“I didn’t know I have children. Wow!”<o:p></o:p></div>
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A few minutes later we’re back in the car. As I drive she puts her hand on my arm and says, “Thank you for telling me what you told me. I didn’t know. I’m just so lucky to have you. You are so nice and so kind to me and just an amazing guy. You are a great son and there’s no one better.” That’s Ginny Schilaty. The most affirming woman in the world. Alzheimer’s has taken so much from her, but it hasn’t taken that. <o:p></o:p></div>
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Now I’m back in Utah with a mix of emotions. So happy to get back to regular life. Missing my parents and wishing I was home to help out more. But also relieved that I don’t have to. And I feel guilty that I feel relieved. But I know exactly what my mom would say if I told her that. “Don’t feel guilty, Ben. You are such a good son. Just go and live your life and don't worry about us. We’ll be fine. Do the things you want to do.” <o:p></o:p></div>
Benhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/04151204932376899998noreply@blogger.com5tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7565469030539917833.post-31235108736689541072019-07-02T09:14:00.005-07:002022-06-01T09:41:03.008-07:00Pride Is the Opposite of Shame<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
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I have two rainbow pins displayed on my backpack. Each of them containing a symbol that ties them to BYU. They’re rad because they reveal two pieces of me to whomever is standing behind me. I had owned both them for many weeks before attaching them to my backpack. Each pin was placed on my backpack following an incident that made me feel misunderstood as a gay Latter-day Saint. I put them on my backpack because I felt like gay people like myself needed more visibility. </div>
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I distinctly remember walking across BYU campus the day I put the first pin on my backpack, feeling proud to be seen. I walked by the Harold B. Lee library where I had once secretly read a handful of books about how to overcome same-sex attraction. Now, ten years later, I was walking across campus with a small circular object advertising the thing that had brought me so much shame for much of my life. <o:p></o:p><a href="https://1.bp.blogspot.com/--dKzflsj1cw/XRsBh3R6lmI/AAAAAAAABq4/aJVGZNp3S70_SBgxYH1BymxAVKxhAsN0gCLcBGAs/s1600/YKoLglQNRJeKUAXvzGa%2525eQ.jpg" style="clear: right; float: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1600" data-original-width="1200" height="320" src="https://1.bp.blogspot.com/--dKzflsj1cw/XRsBh3R6lmI/AAAAAAAABq4/aJVGZNp3S70_SBgxYH1BymxAVKxhAsN0gCLcBGAs/s320/YKoLglQNRJeKUAXvzGa%2525eQ.jpg" width="240" /></a></div>
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I also wear a rainbow ring on my right ring finger. My aunt gave it to me for Christmas. At first I thought it was a bit loud, but now I like it. Maybe because I regularly get compliments about it. I always reply, “Thanks! My aunt gave it to me.” <o:p></o:p></div>
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and festivals aren’t really my thing. I don't hang a rainbow flag, or
change my Facebook profile picture, or paint my face. But a lot of
people do. I know that Pride makes a lot of people uncomfortable. It
might feel “in your face” or flamboyant. While I might not do much to
celebrate Pride month this June, I can understand why so many people
feel the need to celebrate. <o:p></o:p></div>
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I remember times in my 20s when I would’ve been relieved if I had been diagnosed with terminal cancer. I would’ve been free of same-sex attraction, my suffering would be over, and I could die a hero. Being dead and straight was a better option than being alive and gay. That’s what shame did to me. It made me want to be dead. <o:p></o:p></div>
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Overcoming that shame took years. The antonyms of pride—depression, gloom, melancholy—were often present in my life whenever I thought about dating, marriage, or my future. I don’t feel those feelings anymore when I think about my sexuality. The shame is gone. I now accept my sexual orientation as something that I couldn’t change. It is a part of me. And I want to live for a very long time. My outlook has completely shifted from wanting to be dead to wanting to live a long, full life. And isn’t that something worth celebrating? <o:p></o:p></div>
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My story of growing from shame to acceptance isn’t that unique. So many LGBTQ folks have walked a similar path. So when I see a mom hang a rainbow flag from her front porch, I don’t think, “c’mon, keep your life to yourself.” Instead, I imagine a mom who was once uncomfortable and ashamed to have a gay son who is now saying, “I love my son. All of him.” When I see my friends dressed in rainbow colors marching down the street I don’t see them as being flamboyant, but I see them celebrating their desire to live. A desire that they may not have always had. And I’m grateful. <o:p></o:p></div>
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I’ve only been to one pride parade. It was September 2016 in Tucson, AZ. I had been invited to march with Mormons Building Bridges. Those who march with Mormons Building Bridges wear their Sunday best to let the LGBTQ community know that as Latter-day Saints we want to be at the forefront of expressing love and compassion. I was hesitant to go. I decided to go and then decided not to go a few times. I recall discussing whether or not go with my straight friend Josh. He told me that if I decided to go he would go with me. I even emailed my stake president asking if it was okay for me to march in a pride parade. His simple response was, “I trust you.” About an hour and half before the parade started I felt compelled to go. I texted Josh, we both put on our church clothes, and drove over to the parade area. <o:p></o:p></div>
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There were only 14 of us in the Mormons Building Bridges group. One of the women who came was from the Spanish branch I was attending. She didn’t speak English and told me that her son had just come out to her and she wanted to walk in the parade so that he knew she loved him. While we were waiting for our turn to march the organizer of the parade greeted us all. She said she had grown up Mormon, but had left the Church in her 20s. She told us how touching it was to see us there. <o:p></o:p></div>
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Josh and I were asked to hold the Mormons Building Bridges banner. As we walked down 4<sup>th</sup>Avenue I distinctly felt the presence of the Holy Ghost. Spectators shouted “The Mormons are here!” and we were cheered and cheered. It was a deeply moving experience for me to be in a pride parade dressed as a Latter-day Saint. We could have easily been booed, but instead we were welcomed and praised for our participation. We belonged the least of any group there and yet we still belonged. And those who saw us were adamant that we belonged and that they were glad we were there. No one was ashamed of our presence. One of the parade officials took a group picture of us after the parade. She said, “Thank you, thank you, thank you for coming.” I hope that any LGBTQ person who attends church will feel as welcomed as I felt at that pride parade. </div>
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I don’t think I’ll be hanging a rainbow flag outside my house. I probably won't wear a rainbow tie to church like my dad does. That doesn’t really feel like my thing. The way I show my pride is by telling my story. I show my pride by allowing myself to be seen. I show my pride by inviting others to walk in my shoes. </div>
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<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">BYU Museum of Art</td></tr>
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And if the word pride makes you uncomfortable, here are some synonyms that might be easier to relate to—dignity, self-respect, honor. Gay dignity means that I am comfortable being myself around others. Gay self-respect means that I welcome all parts of me as important ingredients to who I am. Gay honor means that I no longer want to die because of my orientation.<o:p></o:p></div>
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June is a healing, celebratory month for so many people. I hope that we can celebrate our lives and who we are and who we want to become throughout the year. And I hope that every person, especially those who have been previously weighed down by shame, feel an overwhelming sense of dignity, self-respect, and honor. <o:p></o:p></div>
Benhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/04151204932376899998noreply@blogger.com17tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7565469030539917833.post-82039464944907271962019-06-24T10:52:00.000-07:002019-06-24T10:55:31.525-07:00Agency and Same-Sex Attraction<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 29.333335876464844px; margin: 0in 0in 0.0001pt;">
<span lang="EN" style="line-height: 32px;"><i><span style="font-family: "times new roman" , serif; font-size: small;">The following essay was recently published in the BYU Studies Quarterly. </span><span style="font-family: "times new roman" , serif;">You</span><span style="font-family: "times new roman" , serif; font-size: small;"> can access the online version of the article on the BYU Studies Quarterly website <a href="https://byustudies.byu.edu/content/agency-and-same-sex-attraction">here</a> and even download a PDF version for free! I'm sure your first thought was, man, I really wish I had a PDF version of this article. </span></i></span></div>
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<b><span lang="EN" style="font-family: "times new roman" , serif; font-size: 12pt; line-height: 32px;">Agency and Same-Sex Attraction<o:p></o:p></span></b></div>
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<i><span lang="EN" style="font-family: "times new roman" , serif; font-size: 12pt; line-height: 32px;">Ben Schilaty<o:p></o:p></span></i></div>
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<span lang="EN" style="font-family: "times new roman" , serif; font-size: 12pt; line-height: 32px;">“Next to the bestowal of life itself, the right to direct that life is God’s greatest gift to man.”[1]<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span lang="EN" style="font-family: "times new roman" , serif; font-size: 12pt; line-height: 32px;"> —David O. McKay<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span lang="EN" style="font-family: "times new roman" , serif; font-size: 12pt; line-height: 32px;">I arrived at my parent’s home at 11 p.m. after twenty-six hours of driving. The trek from Tucson, Arizona, to Everett, Washington, had been miserable. My life had become unmanageable, and I didn’t know what else to do but go home. I sprawled out on the living room floor, exhausted from the drive and emotionally worn out. I was too tired to pretend to be happy and too sad to do much besides complain. I was thirty years old, and it felt like my life would be perpetually filled with loneliness.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span lang="EN" style="font-family: "times new roman" , serif; font-size: 12pt; line-height: 32px;">I had come out to my parents seven years before. I didn’t consider myself gay back then. I was “more attracted to men than women.” My parents responded immediately with love and concern, making sure that I knew they loved me. One of the first things my dad said was, “Well, you’re probably better off being single, because being married is hard.” A very typical thing for him to say. “Things could be worse, so be grateful for what you’ve got” was frequent advice from him.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span lang="EN" style="font-family: "times new roman" , serif; font-size: 12pt; line-height: 32px;">After our initial conversation, about once a year my dad would ask, “So how’s that whole ‘same-sex attraction’ thing going?” and I’d reply, “Good.” My mom would hug me and tell me she loved me, and that was all we ever said about it. I just didn’t feel like opening up to them.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span lang="EN" style="font-family: "times new roman" , serif; font-size: 12pt; line-height: 32px;">Now, at thirty years old and seven years later, I was sitting on the same couch that I had sat on when I came out to them, and I just spewed seven years of experiences. I couldn’t keep them in any more. They included the pain of being gay and a Latter-day Saint, wondering what my future would look like, and a hole in my heart that just couldn’t seem to be filled. Church materials used words like <i>affliction</i>, <i>temptation</i>, <i>inclination</i>, and <i>struggle</i>to describe experiences like mine. I felt like I had been tried to the point of breaking. I just couldn’t struggle with my “affliction” anymore.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span lang="EN" style="font-family: "times new roman" , serif; font-size: 12pt; line-height: 32px;">After listening for quite some time, my mom seemed to grasp how hard the last seven years had been for me. She promised, “Ben, we’re not just on your side. We’re with you one hundred percent. If you need to leave the Church and marry a man, you and he will always be part of our family.” My dad nodded his head in agreement. I didn’t know how much I needed to hear that from my mom. I had felt trapped in a doctrine and culture that seemed to have no place for a gay man like me, wedged between wanting to be in a same-sex relationship and wanting to stay in the Church. Hearing my mom tell me that it was okay to leave set me free. She honored my agency just as my Heavenly Parents do. She also reassured me that if I made a choice that was outside of our doctrine, I wouldn’t be outside of our family. I couldn’t do anything that would remove me from my family. My mother gave me life and then gave me the freedom to live it.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span lang="EN" style="font-family: "times new roman" , serif; font-size: 12pt; line-height: 32px;">The Lord revealed to Joseph Smith, “All truth is independent in that sphere in which God has placed it, to act for itself” (D&C 93:30). My mother acted within her sphere of influence, as the matriarch of our family, to let me know that I would always be part of the family. She used her agency to give me a supernal gift.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span lang="EN" style="font-family: "times new roman" , serif; font-size: 12pt; line-height: 32px;">I journaled a lot during the next few weeks, trying to figure out what to do with my life. After a long conversation with my dad in which we both spilled our guts, I wrote, “What I really appreciate about my dad is that he asks really good questions and he listens. He’s also thought deeply about this stuff. It felt so good to be 100% honest with him and for each of us to just share our feelings and be on the same page.” The next day I wrote, “Went to the temple with my parents which was great. However, my mom spends a little too much time looking at me lovingly.”<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span lang="EN" style="font-family: "times new roman" , serif; font-size: 12pt; line-height: 32px;">I did a lot of hard spiritual work at my parents’ house. I searched the scriptures for answers, and the ones I got often weren’t satisfying. I read the words of Jesus in Gethsemane: “Father, if thou be willing, remove this cup from me: nevertheless not my will, but thine, be done” (Luke 22:42). I thought to myself, I don’t want to be gay. I don’t want to have to choose between being in the Church and being with someone I love. The cup I was given felt so incredibly unfair. And yet the Savior acted in his sphere of influence to drink from a cup that he didn’t want. What cup was God offering me?<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span lang="EN" style="font-family: "times new roman" , serif; font-size: 12pt; line-height: 32px;">Then I opened up the Book of Mormon and read: “Therefore, cheer up your hearts, and remember that ye are free to act for yourselves” (2 Ne. 10: 23). It was my choice, and no one else’s. And I should be glad that no one could choose for me. Then the next verse drove me to my knees: “Wherefore, my beloved brethren, reconcile yourselves to the will of God, and not to the will of the devil and the flesh; and remember, after ye are reconciled unto God, that it is only in and through the grace of God that ye are saved” (2 Ne. 10:24). I had been focusing so much on my pain, my loneliness, and my desperation, that I had failed to really ascertain the will of God regarding my sexuality. I was so intent on changing who I was that I missed out on being who I was.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span lang="EN" style="font-family: "times new roman" , serif; font-size: 12pt; line-height: 32px;">As I sought his will and turned to Christ, I felt Christ point me to his church. I felt called to keep my covenants. I felt compelled to act within my sphere of influence to choose to live the restored gospel. For the first time in my life, I felt that changing my sexuality was outside of my sphere of influence. God wasn’t asking me to change. He was inviting me to be the person he created me to be. And so, even though it was a bitter decision at the time, I chose to drink in a renewed commitment to a life within the teachings of The Church of Jesus Christ of Latter-day Saints.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span lang="EN" style="font-family: "times new roman" , serif; font-size: 12pt; line-height: 32px;">After a month of staying with my family, the time came to head back to Arizona and return to real life. But I couldn’t keep doing things the way I had before. It hadn’t worked. My mind and my spirit were both telling me, through the pain I was in, that something wasn’t right. Similar to how our bodies give us hunger pangs to tell us to nourish ourselves, my spirit was telling me that something needed to change.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span lang="EN" style="font-family: "times new roman" , serif; font-size: 12pt; line-height: 32px;">While keeping my sexuality a secret had been hard on me, the real cancer was the shame it created. What would people think of me if they knew I was gay? Would they hate me like I had hated myself? I couldn’t let fear control me anymore. I couldn’t live with the shame anymore. So over the next six months I came out to every person I was close to in my life. I made a lot of phone calls, had a lot of one-on-one conversations, and wrote a lot of emails. And I sent a few letters.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span lang="EN" style="font-family: "times new roman" , serif; font-size: 12pt; line-height: 32px;">One of the letters I sent was to the Wrights. They basically adopted me while I was an undergrad at BYU. With my parents and siblings far away in Washington, the Wright family took me in long before they knew I was gay and made sure I always had a place to spend holidays and eat Sunday dinners. I sent the letter, wondering how this disclosure was about to change our relationship. A week later I got a letter back from Cyndi, the mom of the family. It said in part: “Thank you so much for your letter. We really appreciate you sharing your story with us. Nothing changes. We still love you as one of our own.” Cyndi used her agency to choose me. She acted within her sphere of influence to let me know that I was family. Some families choose to reject their children and others for being gay. The Wrights chose to keep me close.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span lang="EN" style="font-family: "times new roman" , serif; font-size: 12pt; line-height: 32px;">The next time I was in Utah, I stayed at the Wrights’ house. Cyndi and I stayed up talking after everyone else had gone to bed. She reiterated what she had said in the letter; that I was family. She told me that if I left the Church, she would always claim me. I had wasted a lot of time worrying what other people would think of me.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span lang="EN" style="font-family: "times new roman" , serif; font-size: 12pt; line-height: 32px;">Now, I want to be clear at this point that it was my choice to move forward in the Church. I’m not advocating that anyone should simply accept the way I exercise my agency as the way they should. The God-given gift of agency requires all free agents to do their own spiritual work to reconcile themselves with the will of God, whatever that is for them and their lives. </span><span style="font-family: "times new roman" , serif; font-size: 12pt; line-height: 32px;">As the Lord speaks to us through his authorized servants, through the scriptures, and through the Holy Ghost, we will be led down the right paths. </span><span lang="EN" style="font-family: "times new roman" , serif; font-size: 12pt; line-height: 32px;">The key is to be connected enough to heaven that we can be guided on how to proceed in our unique circumstances.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span lang="EN" style="font-family: "times new roman" , serif; font-size: 12pt; line-height: 32px;">To paraphrase David O. McKay, the most precious gift we have been given, next to life itself, is the power to direct that life. “All truth is independent in that sphere in which God has placed it, to act for itself, as all intelligence also;<i>otherwise there is no existence</i>” (D&C 93:30, emphasis added). Our Heavenly Parents endowed us with life <i>and</i>with the gift of agency. If we don’t have agency, we don’t exist. That is, if we cannot act independently of God’s will for us, then we can’t really act upon his will of our own free will either. It must be terrifying even for Heavenly Parents to let their children act for themselves. And yet they enabled us to do so. They gave us existence. They didn’t just create us materially. They gave us power to act for <i>ourselves</i>. <o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span lang="EN" style="font-family: "times new roman" , serif; font-size: 12pt; line-height: 32px;">I think of them observing me during those weeks I spent with my earthly parents, weeping with me and pleading with me to use my agency wisely. I imagine them cheering for my mom, when, like them, she promised to always honor my agency. I think of them watching Cyndi pen that letter promising to always claim me, and of them saying, “We will always claim you, too, Ben.”<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span lang="EN" style="font-family: "times new roman" , serif; font-size: 12pt; line-height: 32px;">I have not been able to choose whether to have opposite-sex attractions, but I do have a multitude of other choices. As a gay Latter-day Saint, the choice I make again and again is to seek out God’s will for me and then to do it. I believe that the Lord wants us to honor one another’s agency as he does. We can’t exist without agency. Our relationships can’t thrive without the freedom to choose. I was blessed by my loved ones when they explicitly told me that they wanted me in their families no matter what I chose. Hearing them say those things changed my life. Those affirmations took me from a pit of despair and offered me hope. I doubt my mom or Cyndi or the many other people in my life who said similar things recognized the gift they were offering me in those moments. But I know it now. And our Heavenly Parents knew it all along. Let’s allow others to use the gift of agency, and let’s use our agency to choose each other.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<a href="https://www.blogger.com/null" name="_ftn1" title=""><span class="MsoFootnoteReference" style="vertical-align: super;"><span lang="EN" style="font-family: "times new roman" , serif; font-size: 10.5pt; line-height: 16.100000381469727px;"><span class="MsoFootnoteReference" style="vertical-align: super;"><span lang="EN" style="font-size: 10.5pt; line-height: 16.100000381469727px;">[1]</span></span></span></span></a><span lang="EN" style="font-family: "times new roman" , serif; font-size: 10.5pt; line-height: 16.100000381469727px;">David O. McKay, in <i>One Hundred Twentieth Annual Conference of the Church of Jesus Christ of Latter-day Saints</i>(Salt Lake City: The Church of Jesus Christ of Latter-day Saints, 1950), 32.</span><span style="font-family: "times new roman" , serif; font-size: 12pt; line-height: 18.399999618530273px;"><o:p></o:p></span></div>
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Benhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/04151204932376899998noreply@blogger.com8