Why the "Mormon Mold" Needs to be Broken

I read an article today on LDS Living Magazine's website, called "When Your Child Doesn't Fit the Mormon Mold". In this article, the author discusses her teenage son's "unconventional" (by Mormon standards) appearance, and how people can be more accepting and understanding of such individuals. Sounds pretty good on the outside, right?

That's what I thought, too. One of my biggest pet peeves about Mormon culture (not the doctrine, mind you) is the fact that people can get really... concerned about how other people choose to dress/groom themselves. Among other things, but let's focus on appearance for now.

Her skirt is 1/4 of an inch above the knee! Alert the Bishop!

Now, don't get me wrong, there were things in the article that I did actually like. For example, what she said about harsh judgments being one of the things that keep people away from church is 100% true. Feeling like you don't fit in is the worst, especially when you are at the mercy of the self-righteous who don't dig your personal style. She also said some very nice things about being kind to people, which are spot on.

What I didn't like was the unsettling undertone of, "give it time, they will change eventually":

If you are a Church leader, continue to teach the reasons behind the modesty and grooming standards in a loving, nonjudgmental way. Allow our children time to process these principles and come to the decision to change on their own.

She says this as though, as soon as someone accepts the principles of the Gospel, they will immediately decide to get a "missionary haircut" and wear a tie to church. She mentions her son cutting his hair shorter as he becomes more comfortable at church, slowly beginning his metamorphosis into a standard, cookie-cutter Mormon.

Acceptance at church is such an important topic, and I really wish she would have come at it from a more open-minded angle. Love of the Gospel is why we go to church. It doesn't matter if you're a shaggy-haired teenager, a tatted-up convert, or a feminist in pants. We go to church to praise, not to judge others for stupid, superficial things. Diversity is what makes us great! The message shouldn't be "be nice, and they will change eventually", it should just be a simple, "be nice".

It's time to break out of the Mormon Mold -- let's embrace the differences that make us great.

The Fourth Day

Now that our spring concert is over and we are truly in the Easter season, our focus in the Chorale has once again turned to Rob Gardner's gorgeous oratorio, Lamb of God. Always the highlight of our spring season, the piece focuses on the last days of Christ's ministry on Earth.

Tickets will be available HERE starting on Monday, March 24 (it's free - just sayin')

This year I've been trying to let myself get lost in the doctrine as well as the music. In addition to making notes on dynamics and rhythms, I've been writing personal notes to myself in the score as we sing: "Who am I representing, here? What is my character feeling? What am I feeling?" Doing this has helped me connect to the piece emotionally, and today in rehearsal it struck me in a very personal way.

We were practicing I Am the Resurrection, and we had the opportunity to talk about Lazarus and "the fourth day". In Jewish cultural tradition, it was believed that the soul hovered near the body for three days after death, but after that time had passed there was no hope for the deceased to ever live again. When Christ came to Mary and Martha, Lazarus had already reached his fourth day. There were few who believed that he could rise again.

He that believeth in me, though he were dead, yet shall he live.

Lazarus rose. Those who had lost hope were absolved - their prayers had been answered. Their trial was waiting: they needed to have hope until the fourth day.

As we talked about this, our director asked us if we could think of any time where we were made to wait until the fourth day. I wrote it down in my score, and immediately knew what I would say if I could bring myself to say it out loud. My "fourth day" was the day I let myself become converted to Christ.

It had been two years since I had been to church. I was bitter and sad - there were so many things about the church that I didn't understand, and so many ways I felt I had been abandoned by God. I was tired of fighting, and I was sick. Very sick. My lungs, which have fought against me for my whole life, were full of fluid; my throat so raw that I couldn't move or swallow without sharp pain. I couldn't breathe. I couldn't even cry. I thought that I was going to die, and I had never felt more alone in my whole life. Suddenly, I wanted a priesthood blessing more than anything else in the world. I called my long-suffering home teachers, and they agreed to come over as soon as possible (privately, I think they probably high-fived each other right after I called).

As I had my priesthood blessing, I was hit full-force by the power of God's love for me. I was immediately aware of the spirit in the room, and of the truth of all the things I knew. The gospel was true, I would get well, and my life would now be full of light. In spite of my struggles, I could, and would be whole again.

He that believeth in me, though he were dead, yet shall he live.

I may have not been as close to physical death as I believed myself to be (and certainly not as dead as Lazarus), but I was hovering on the edge of a spiritual death that I don't think I could have ever come back from. The tiny sliver of faith I showed when I asked for a blessing that night - the faint hope and belief that God would help me - saved my life that night. I had been in a tomb made of my stubbornness and hurt, and Christ brought me back into the light.

There is always hope for us. Christ is our champion of second chances. He died so that we could live again! He lived and loved so that we could learn how to live our lives in the best way that we can.

This Easter season, as we go through the season of Lent (or sing beautiful music) to remember the ministry of Jesus Christ, I hope we can all think about our fourth day. I hope that we will think about those dark times in our lives, and come to know that Christ will always be there to lead us into the light.

. . . but he that shall endure unto the end, the same shall be saved. (Mark 13:13)

Empty Rooms

You'll probably notice, if you bother checking up on this blog, that I haven't made a post in almost a year. It's not that I'm short on ideas or material (I have notebooks full of things I could write about), it's that sometimes life throws you some very personal curveballs, and those things tend to be the hardest to write about.

On August 2, 2013, the Mathias clan lost our beloved Matriarch: my paternal grandmother. I don't think anyone is ever prepared for that kind of loss, even though you know it's coming. In the six months that have followed, I have witnessed what it means to come unglued. Other changes, like the recent relocation of my grandfather into an assisted living facility, have reinforced my conclusion that we have all lost an anchor and haven't quite figured out how to stop drifting, yet.

I went into their home the other day, to vacuum and do some more cleaning now that the furniture has been moved out, and I was overblown by how awful it felt to see those rooms empty. The walls there are still radiating with more than 40 years of love, but there is no one there to feel it. I sat in the middle of the bedroom floor and let it soak into my bones. I had a lot of time to reflect on my life and my choices for the future. I could choose to wallow in my grief, or to use it as a motivator to become the kind of person that my grandmother was. I could use my hard times to become a vessel of love.

It's been six months, now. For me, it's time to create an anchor of my own, and become my best self. I am so grateful for the example I was blessed with, and for the 23 years I was able to spend with my grandmother on this earth.

Spring is coming. It's time to begin again.

The Pool Bag

It was the most beautiful bag my young eyes had ever seen. It was the latest thing from Xhileration at Target -- a green and yellow transparent plastic patchwork masterpiece. It was very 90s mod; all Austin Powers, Eurotrash, and oh so very Spice Girls. Naturally, I needed to have it.

All the best life decisions are based on these ladies.

Luckily, I had a "good" reason for needing such a bag. Ashley's pool party was coming up, and ALL the other girls in my Brownie troop were going to be there. If I didn't have a beach tote like they all had, I knew I would just die. I was already having enough trouble fitting in after our last outing -- horseback riding -- when all of the other girls teased me mercilessly for not having real riding boots (that incident made me so ashamed that I almost didn't go on the trip -- luckily my mom intervened).

This time was going to be different. This was Ashley's party, and she had invited me. Now, I grew up in the 90s, so there was a whole pack of Ashleys in my class, but this was THE Ashley. Petite, blonde, and popular -- she was the queen bee of my Brownie troop, and the girl that everyone else wanted to be. There was no way I was going to screw this up.

This wasn't just a popular party. No, this was a BOY/GIRL party, and I was reeling with excitement. The only boys I had ever had at parties were my cousins, so this was a huge deal. In my head, I showed up to the party looking svelte and beautiful, somewhere between an Olson twin and Cher from Clueless. I would sparkle, laugh, and have a good time, and he would see me. He would see me and want to hold the HECK out of my hand. It didn't matter that I was just a dumpy third grader with no social skills whatsoever: this party was going to change everything (and it was ALL because of my shiny new pool bag).

The day finally arrived, and I triple checked to make sure everything was perfect. My new bag was packed with my towel, sunscreen, and a copy of the latest American Girl magazine; all carefully and artfully placed, visible through the shiny, green vinyl. I had butterfly clips in my braid -- the kind with the wings that really moved-- and they matched the blue butterflies on my swimsuit (thank you, mom, for these concessions to my adolescent vanity). I felt like a totally unstoppable babe. I probably looked more like this:

I learned two valuable lessons at that party. 1) If an invitation seems unusual, it's because her mom made her invite you, and 2) Never, EVER wear the same butterfly clips as the most popular girl in school. No one even looked at my super trendy bag. I was immediately accused of copying the birthday girl, and spent most of the party trying not to cry in the kitchen, surrounded by a bunch of waspy moms who were drinking white wine and talking about sending their girls to cheer camp.

I'd love to say that this was the day I learned that appearance and trendy trappings have no effect on how people see you or how you see yourself, but this is not the case. I spent years after this doing the same goofy things, trying to get the attention of the same types of people. Even when I went through my gothy phase, it was because I had people I was desperate to impress.

I didn't learn this lesson until years later, when I was jumping into another pool (fully clothed) with a group of people that I had never had to try to impress. Years after the shiny green pool bag had been sacrificed for bigger and better things, I was resting on the still-warm pavement with my friends, watching the sunset and feeling more comfortable than I ever had before. There was no purchase necessary for this happiness -- no frills needed to make it a perfect day.

Growing up is never as perfect as we all seem to think it should be. No one ever learns a lesson the first time they make a mistake, and there are no dramatic transformations that immediately make us who we want to become. However, we are given one bit of peace in this whole mess: in spite of all of our mistakes and our eternal human fumblings and awkward moments, there are still perfect days to be had.

And I learned that all, indirectly (and slowly), from that glorious, shiny, cooler-than-cool pool bag. May it still be awesome, wherever it is.

Original Words: Flypaper

I've got a mind like flypaper. It flutters in the wind, collecting all of the shiny, iridescent thoughts of you that buzz around me constantly. They struggle feebly against the glue as I watch them, and I relive their tiny lives one by one.
They can't escape, and neither can I.
Day after day I watch them die, leaving their gasoline-stain, bottle green skeletons behind for me to mourn. More than just memories -- they were my hopes, and all of the stupid, ridiculous dreams I had.

They were beautiful then, flying too far away to see. They're beautiful now, even though their slow decay disgusts me.

Had they been easier to see, would I have swatted them away when they landed on my skin? I like to tell myself that I would have, but I know that this is a lie. I would have let them eat me to the bone, and then I would ask if there was anything else I could give them to devour. I would crack open my bones and offer the marrow. I'd give them my soul, if they wanted to taste it.

I still can't believe how quickly the force that was you swarmed into my life and under my skin. How unguarded I was. How, even before I knew what you were, I split open my chest cavity to let you in.
For ten seconds, you made me feel empowered. You were a secret that made me feel so beautiful, so elated, that I didn't even notice that you were eating away at my insides, or that I was about to collapse. Utterly pathetic over you.

Without a vessel that could stand on its own, you flew away, leaving behind these slow, sad memories that orbit my head daily, getting caught in this sticky paper.

Someday, when everything about you has crumbled into dust, I'll take the paper down. I'll learn to glow -- electric blue and warm. A guard around my head to guard my heart, I'll watch every new invader disappear with a flash.
A pop.
A fizz.

Picture by Lightly Enchanted

The Annual Easter "Not Muches"

Easter has always been a difficult holiday for me... at least, it has been since I was old enough to know what the holiday was really about (when you're a kid, Easter just means jelly beans).

Don't get me wrong; I love hearing about the ministry and resurrection of Christ. Even when I was basically apostate, the story filled me with an incredible amount of respect for the Lord. It takes so much love to live for others, and even more to die for them. One of my biggest goals in life is to love and serve in every way I can - to develop a perfect love.

I guess that's why Easter hits me so hard. As I think about Christ and his perfect love, I start to see all of my shortcomings, and they eat away at me for weeks.

I wish I could be more open, and kind. I need to be a better teacher, and a better friend. I don't connect with people as easily as I should, and I don't serve as much as I could. I get really prideful sometimes.

Basically, Easter makes me feel like a whole lot of Not Much... which is really bizarre, considering that this is a Christian holiday that tends to lean heavily on the individual worth aspect of humanity. It's good for me, though. The more I focus on Christ, the harder I look at myself,  and the more I see what I can be.

I have no idea why I'm writing this. Sorry guys! Sometimes the slightly depressing and weird thoughts need to come out, too.

I hope you all had a lovely Easter! I'll write something more interesting later this week (something that I'll actually draft and edit before I post it).

-- Kari

Fat

A while back, I posted a video of myself reading Jason Stefaniak and Siobhan O'Loughlin's monologue, This is My Body, to my YouTube channel. Today, I got my first comment:

Yes, troll. I'm fat.

FAT. Big. Heavy. Plus sized. WOMAN sized. Curvy. "Fabulous and Thick." However you want to put it, that's what I am. I have a poofy tummy, sturdy legs, big arms, and stretch marks that I've spent years trying to own. These are the facts.

What I don't understand, however, is how any of that relates to my political views. I don't see how it affects any other part of me, actually. My fat is not who I am. The things that define me are infinite, and how much I weigh is the least of these. My fat does not dictate the clothes I wear. It doesn't make me NOT love moving my body and exploring the world around me. It doesn't influence my religious or political choices, my health, or my sense of humor. It just is.

My resolution for 2013 was to learn how to accept myself for everything I am, and to stop saying things like, "When I'm thin I'll...". Searching the internet, I found and fell in love with several body-positive blogs that I now check on a regular basis. I am in awe of the men and women I've seen and met, who look so gorgeous in every inch of their confident skin. One of my new heroines is the amazing Rachel Wiley, slam poet extraordinaire.



Everything I have ever felt, and wanted to say, she has said with such beautiful eloquence. Her example, and the examples of all the people like her, who ring with confidence in spite of anything that people might say is "abnormal" about them,  have started to bring about a change in me. For the first time in a long time, I feel brilliant.

Feeling this way, after so many years of self-hatred, is like unlocking a part of myself that I barely even recognize. Her confidence terrifies me, but her beauty is stunning. She looks in the mirror and loves what she sees. She speaks her mind. She dances, laughs, and gets up on stage to sing karaoke in front of a bar of people that she's never even met. Right now, she's at the back of my mind wondering why I've always been afraid to write these things down.

I wish I could tell her. It seems kind of silly now.

So, internet troll, I applaud you for your efforts. It must have taken years for you to come up with "Well... you're fat." as a response to political opinions you disagree with. Unfortunately, it seems like I'm finally past being hurt by people like you.

Yes, I am fat. But, more than that, I am beautiful.