Trial of My Faith

On August 6, 2011, I was baptized as a follower of Christ and a member of The Church of Jesus Christ of Latter-day Saints.

On August 5, 2012, I was prepared to resign my membership in the Church.

How did I get from point A to point B in one year? How did I go from being sure of my decision to be baptized to wanting to throw it all away? How could anyone have a major crisis of faith after just a year?

There were several factors, but looking back, the one that felt the most painful to me at that time was family.

My religion places a huge emphasis on families. Our temples are all about enabling families to be together forever in Heaven. We're taught that motherhood is a gift, and that having a family is one of the most important things we can do in this life. That focus on families as the center of everything is great -- at least, it's great for other people. As an ideal, I agree with it, but when it comes to me... I'd rather not hear it.

On that day -- August 5th -- the Relief Society in the family ward I attended at the time sang the song that I refer to in my journal as "That Stupid Song." It wasn't an uncommon hymn in that ward. (Thank goodness my student ward has better taste...) On that day, I couldn't even bear to write the name of the hymn. "Families Can Be Together Forever."

I remember saying "not this again" as we turned to it in the hymnals. Before the first verse was over, I was crying, and by the end of the song, I was fleeing the church. I spent fifteen minutes sitting in my car in the church parking lot, sobbing, half-hoping someone would notice but fully prepared to scream at anyone who came near me.

Finally, I pulled myself together enough to drive. I was supposed to be following the missionaries to a member's house for dinner, but as we left, I had no plans of ending up anywhere that Mormons were. Hearing that song at that moment was the final straw for me. I was going to leave the Church, go back to my old ways, and hope that doing so would magically fix the problems that really existed long before my baptism. I didn't know what else to do.

This is what I wrote that evening:

I don’t know what made me choose to go with them. Each time they turned, I thought to myself “I can wait and make up my mind at the next intersection” and followed them. At the next-to-last turn, I thought “okay, when they turn onto the last street, I can go straight, and this will be over.” Then they turned… and I followed them.

I went into the house. I listened to what the missionaries and the Muellers had to say — I didn’t comment, but I listened, and I remembered. I remembered the love I’ve felt from my Heavenly Father, I remembered the day I accepted Christ as my Savior, and I remembered the day I was blessed to have the Spirit with me always.

It still hurts. Oh, it hurts. I suffer every day, and I can’t honestly say that I love this church. But I do know the restored gospel is true, and I do know I’m a better person today because I accepted my Heavenly Father and my Savior one year ago.

Six months later, it still hurts. I'm not sure if the pain of the word "family" will ever completely fade. I still have moments of pain and anger and weakness, but I am beginning to heal. I do love this church. It's taught me the things that I needed to learn in order to allow Heavenly Father to change my life, and that change has been incredible. The sadness is every bit as real as it was that Sunday afternoon, but it isn't as acute. I survived that trial of my faith.

Today, I'm grateful for this church. I'm grateful for the gospel. I'm grateful for the family that accepted a lost teenage girl with open arms and open hearts, and for the family that raised me to be the person I am today. I'm grateful for the missionaries who helped me, even without knowing it. Most of all, I'm grateful for Christ. I know that no matter how much "That Stupid Song" hurts my heart, He is the one person who can completely understand my brokenness and love me anyway. He's felt this pain. The Atonement is real.