We Mormons have shelves,

Wide, sturdy ones carved by hand,

Our birthright from our pioneer heritage.

It’s where we keep our funny collection of doubts,

Those silly curios that pop up now and again.

A shelf is useful to have around.

Where else can one put the dusty pickled pig fetus called “polygamy,”

Or the stoppered vessel of tears called “priesthood and temple ban”?

There’s room for a hot, flaky pan of gender rolls

And maybe even a small bottle of consecrated oil called “women healers.”

A juniper tree named Asherah,

A rainbow flag.

There is room, room for all the things.

My shelf was full of the usual suspects,

The ordinary lineup.

Occasionally I would pull down an item to examine it from a different angle,

Or dust it off a bit.

I would add an additional item now and again.

But this is expected.

A shelf is meant to hold things.

It’s not necessary to understand all the things on a shelf

To appreciate that a shelf is a worthy addition to one’s faith.

It is not given to us to understand all things.

I knit my doubt into a sweater my last year of church,

Sitting silently in classes adding row by row,

A baggy, ugly thing full of holes–

Valuing community but watching my shelf creak under the weight of doubt.

I wore pants and taught luminous young women that their brains and hearts and love make them unique, not their uteruses.

I formed the words of my first prayer to the Goddess.

And I cobbled together a gospel of radical inclusion.

I raised money for nicely-dressed, polite women to ask nicely for entrance.

I watched them excommunicate my friend.

I wept, and showed my shoulders and took up coffee.

I ignored the shelf full of interesting relics of my former faith,

And it became encrusted with the detritus of time,

The barnacles of passage.

Just when I thought I had moved past the hurt,

I saw the news that the church of my youth would exclude children,

Labeling as apostates people who love one another.

And my shelf didn’t break.

It shattered.

We Mormons have shelves,

Wide, sturdy ones carved by hand,

Our birthright from our pioneer heritage.

It’s where we keep our funny collection of doubts,

Until the doubts catch fire

And burn the whole shelf to the ground.

This guest post was written by Blisten Shrill, who describes herself as a champion of eyeliner, oversized hats, and gender equality. She’s training for the Extreme Knitting Olympics and supports women’s ordination in all faith traditions. When she’s not lawyerin’ or saving her child’s life, she coaches a troupe of octopuses in synchronized swimming.