By Anonymous

When I was about two weeks from turning 16, I wrote a note to my mom and sent it down the pew to her. The idea had come while I was sitting in church. The note said that I wanted to get my patriarchal blessing on my 16th birthday. My 16th birthday also happened to be Easter that year. And general conference. As my grandpa had recently been called as a patriarch, I would be getting it from him. But he wasn’t in my ward or stake, so I had to get permission. I was able to meet with the Bishop the following Sunday, a mere week before my birthday. I went in, totally confident that I would be able to get permission, or the recommend or what ever it is that we do before getting our patriarchal blessing. My appointment was before church. This did not go the way I had hoped. I went in, explained why I wanted to do it on that day, and waited. What I heard was this: no. He kept saying over and over, that he knows that in some families, its a tradition to do it at this time, and that he thought I needed to be more prepared, and that I should go home and study my scriptures more. I again explained that it was not family tradition, (I am the oldest, not only of my family, but of all the grandkids on that side of the family. There was no precedent.) He repeated it. I was not ready, family tradition wasn’t good enough reason, and that I needed to study my scriptures more. I left in tears. Heartbroken. I didn’t understand. It wasn’t family tradition. It wasn’t anything but my desire to do it. I ended up in the mothers lounge, which was conveniently right as women were walking into the bathroom. A friend saw me sobbing, and went to get my mom. I explained. I got a hold of myself, and I went through the normal schedule of Sunday school and Young Womens. By the end of the three hour block, I had the paper that I needed, signed by the Bishop. To this day, I don’t know what my mother did or said that made him change his mind.

My relationship with my mother is fragile. It was completely broken into small, tiny pieces about 10 years ago, and it hasn’t fully healed. But this story, about how my mom went in to the bishop, and did whatever she did (I’m pretty sure she gave him the verbal equivalent of putting him in a headlock) has stayed with me. She didn’t just accept what the bishop said, and tell me to deal with it. She went in, and did something about it. Even though, he was the priesthood leader of the ward, and she was probably in cub scouts. She was born and raised in the church, in Utah, and was and is very devout. So you can imagine how surprised I was that she did this, even as a fifteen year old.

My 16th birthday was spent at my grandparents. We watch conference, had a cake, and then we went into the blessing room (used to be the playroom, to the grandkids sadness) and I got my blessing. I was the first grandkid for my grandfather to give a blessing to, and it was a pretty big deal.

But what my mom did for me, stand up to the bishop, has stuck with me for years. I’m about to turn 40. And in those subsequent years I served a mission, got married, and have served in many callings where I’ve had to deal with the leadership of the ward or stake. Maybe it’s my personality, or maybe her example, or most likely a combination of both, but I’ve never been afraid to stand up for what I thought was right, for calling them out on where they messed up. Like the bishop who would practically swear people to secrecy when he gave them callings, telling them they couldn’t tell anyone, no matter what, until they were announced during sacrament. Or the counselor, who to my face in ward council (and I was RS pres) told me that women couldn’t use the building to exercise in without a priesthood member in the building as women weren’t very smart and make bad decisions, and we also couldn’t defend ourselves if someone came to hurt us. Yes, fire was coming out of my eyes.

I am in a different place now, as an almost 40 year old. I don’t see our leadership with the same eyes. I don’t see the priesthood as a whole with the same eyes. I’m still active, but I struggle. Daily. I do my best, and I have hope for change in the future. My fifteen year old sobbing self, sitting in the sad excuse for a mothers lounge, smelling the smell of bathrooms and dirty diapers, is grateful. My mom saw something that was not right. And she went and did something about it. I hope to do the same, not just for my own kids, but for the whole church. Things are not right. They need to change, and I want to try to be a part of that change. It is ridiculously hard sometimes. Many days I want to throw in the towel. But I’m still here.