I started writing this post two weeks ago. Honestly, it could’ve been shorter than that given how fast everything has changed. When I wrote the very beginnings of this post, I wasn’t a homeschool mom. I’m still, technically, not a homeschool mom as my children’s teachers are giving me daily lesson plans. However a big portion of my day is now being spent on the managing of my children’s education. I’m pulling out workbooks, digging for learning activities, and setting up schedules complete with “creative breaks” and “outdoor time.” Everything else in my life has come to a screeching halt, writing included. I’ve been working on this article in bits and pieces as my children finish math worksheets and coloring pages.

I almost scratched this post because, hot damn, we all got bigger problems right now. I’m not one for fearmongering, but the empty shelves and panic buying has me concerned. Everyone is on edge and a random thought I had two weeks ago seems completely irrelevant to all the other thoughts crowding around in my head.

Two weeks ago, I had a conversation with my parents over the phone. It was our normal weekly call, the one where we try to check up and catch up. I love and hate those calls. Before my faith crisis I loved them, but now…well, it’s hit or miss. My parents are wonderful and loving, they’ve accepted and managed my disbelief as well as could be expected, but there’s a disconnect now that wasn’t present before. Questions feel loaded, phrases are carefully worded, and conversations will suddenly become stilted. But sometimes the conversation just naturally flows like it did before, the connection suddenly there again. It’s not exactly like it used to be, but it is there. Two weeks ago the Coronavirus was that conversation.

It started out normal. We live in an area where COVID-19 is practically in our backyard. At the time it was only a handful of cases, but we were still watching it closely. My children’s school started taking precautions by canceling events and we were all washing our hands like a pagan ritual to the god of science.

We started discussing the many ways we were minimizing risks when my dad started telling me about an article he read. This particular article had facts about the virus and how to treat it. Some of these facts weren’t adding up so I asked him to send me this article.

Turns out the article was actually a meme he saw on Facebook.

Yes, you heard that right.

A meme.

On Facebook.

No sources provided, no links to the CDC or any research papers (not that there are many out there right now.) Let’s just say this particular meme had a certain political leaning that has tried to downplay the severity of the virus. After poking a rather large hole in one of the arguments, my parents were good natured enough to laugh at themselves. We then had a very good discussion on verifying sources, identifying actual and reputable article, and a quick lesson about how virus and diseases spread (complete with examples of herd immunity).

It honestly was a wonderful conversation. It allowed my parents to ask questions they weren’t sure where to turn for information. It allowed me to tell them about my sources and why I was taking the precautions I was taking. Suddenly everything I’d been doing was then seen in a different light. Some of their fears were eased, although they became more serious about this whole ordeal. In the end my dad said, “Wow, you’re really smart in how you’re dealing with all of this.” I’m not going to lie, it felt good to hear.

After hanging up, a thought struck me: I’m smart enough to know about the Coronavirus, But not smart enough to know about the church. At least, that’s how my parents feel, think, and act.

The same way I gathered information and checked sources about illnesses and vaccinations was the same way I learned about the church’s history and issues. I looked into sources, I read counter arguments, I used the knowledge I had to make the best decision for me, and then did my best to follow through.

My parents were more that willing to listen and agree with what I had to say about the Coronavirus because they know I’m well read on a variety of subjects. They know I’m level headed, that I don’t make rash decisions, and I’m thoughtful in my approach. They listen to me because they know I know my stuff.

Yet, when I talk with that same confidence and passion about the church, they refuse the listen. Suddenly, I can’t possibly know what I know. Whatever I’ve read must be anti-Mormon literature, which “everyone knows” is full of lies and misconceptions. I’m being lead away by Satan. I wanted to sin and I’m just mad at imperfect church leaders. To them, my reasons for leaving aren’t based in reason and careful consideration.

It breaks my heart, just a little bit, to see that disconnect. They know who I am and the type of person I’ve become, yet there’s a huge blindspot when it comes to the church. I can and will be believed in any other topic I wish to speak about, but never when it comes to the church.

I know it has to be this way for them. If they did listen and consider my reasons, it would hurt their testimony and they might leave the church, too. You’d think I’d want that. That because I have left, I must want them to leave as well.

Like most things, it’s complicated. Leaving the church meant I shed a lot of shame and guilt. I’m more reasonable, less judgmental, more vocal, and less fearful. However, I also intimately know the pain that comes from stepping out of Mormonism. It’s because of that pain that I hesitate when it comes to others.

I think of my faith journey like falling off a cliff and plunging into ice cold water. It’s hard to breathe and I wasn’t sure which way to swim to shore. It’s a hard journey. It’s exhausting and full of many lows. I struggled, and still struggle, with finding my place. I survived the fall, but I’m not sure my retired parents would. Their whole community and world is built around that church. I made it out okay, but I also had a safety net of non-Mormon friends, a good therapist, an understanding husband, and much longer life ahead of me. It was easier for me to swim for that shore than it would ever be for them.

For my children, at least, I’m providing a path down the rocky cliff. Their journey will not be a sudden fall. I can’t say the same for my parents.

So, this is just how it is. They’ve put a wall between themselves and my knowledge for protection. It’s a sad truth and means this disconnect I feel will continue until they take it down, brick by brick. I can’t be the one to penetrate a wall they willingly built.

At least they believed me about COVID-19. So for now, that will have to do.

Stay healthy and well, everyone, and please remember to wash your hands.