Compassion of Complexity

The complexity of people is that they are never just good, nor bad, nor nice, nor mean; they are everything at once, yet seemingly never at the same time. Beliefs, however, are always at the core, and for the same reasons why they are hard to change, they are hard to expose. They have to be clawed out, cried for, or besieged, and a common irony is that they only succumb to their captors in the end. There is inherent compassion in viewing others with complexity; restated, we do not judge the flower for sitting in the dirt.

Mini Bike Hell

“Do you want Dallin to bring his other mini-bike for you to ride tomorrow?” My sister-in-law was asking me a perfectly reasonable question. Mini-bikes are the new rage among all the kids these days, so she was offering me an exceptional opportunity. I stuttered a hesitating response, however. This particular sister-in-law has gotten very good at putting me on the spot like this. For example, yesterday she spent excessive time preparing a simple meal known as “Hawaiian Haystacks.” I’m not sure that Hawaii lays any claim to this meal, which in the Glenwood household consists of pineapple, black olives, chow mein noodles, mandarin oranges, and shredded chicken and cheese with some sort of gravy poured on top. Look, I know that people love this meal. For me, it’s missing some key ingredients, and I think that rice, olives, and chicken gravy are not a great combination. But this particular sister-in-law took the time to ask me, point-blank, if I liked Hawaiian Haystacks. What was I supposed to say? She already prepped the meal, for crying out loud! So I told her I absolutely loved them (if I’m gonna lie, I might as well lay it on thick) and proceeded to fake eating some of it before pitching the remainder of my plate in the garbage. Okay, so back to the mini-bikes situation. Let’s be clear: I’m a young man in an old man’s body. I’ve got a broken tailbone that causes significant paint to the point of me using a literal wheelchair cushion when driving; I see a chiropractor a couple of times a month for low, mid, and upper back pain; my Left Nut is extremely sensitive to vibration or palpation ever since a mangled vasectomy (I don’t want to talk about it!); I could teach a class on actinic keratosis using my face as the prop; my hands and my feet all experience various but consistent levels of arthritis; and last but not least, I’m of course too fat to be riding the equivalent of a child’s dirt bike. But I said yes, and the next day I excitedly mounted the cheapest of the mini-bikes. I didn’t have a helmet on because my enthusiastic (and much younger) brothers-in-law instructed me that the “Biker Gang” all needed to wear hats backward for the photo shoot as we rolled down the road. I prepared for a round-the-block experience. Unfortunately, what was supposed to be an around-the-block joy ride turned into 31 miles of rugged mountain off-roading on these satanic contraptions; most of the journey was on washboard gravel that turned my face into a permanent grimace and curved my sacrum so much it probably punctured my bladder. Left Nut fell off early, savagely bouncing off in a fit of whiny rage. Right Nut was tougher, holding on for a few hours before conscientiously determining that this sort of life was not for him and ceremoniously rolling away, leaving my sans-testicles and only myself to blame. It’s an accepted fact that I will never sit again, and I’m sore in places that I’m pretty sure aren’t even supposed to have nerves. I spent some time with Calvin S., who has been one of my favorite people since we were eight. We did a tiny hike behind Mt. Timpanogos before returning to his house for me to reclaim my lost title of Master Foosballer for the following year. Yesterday, we went to the Last Remaining Lake. That’s not really what it’s called (Palisades), but it appears that every other lake in Utah is drier than a High Councilman’s sermon. From the start, I opted for the mandatory exploration trip, jogging up game trails to cross three high ridges until I could see the Manti temple in the distance. The rock formations looked like someone had taken a giant ice cream scoop to the mountain, and there was a funnel gulley with a suspiciously large number of dead deer corpses/skeletons. I’m pretty sure a mountain lion lives in the region.

In Disbelief (April 26th, 2021; May 23rd, 2021)

April 26, 2021 It is hard feeling like the most dishonest part of my life is directly related to the Church of Jesus Christ of Latter-day Saints. I can be honest in my career field, with my patients, with my business dealings, with my children, and with my spouse in most areas. But I can’t be honest in my beliefs. Well, I can be honest. I simply choose not to. I choose to generally not discuss my doubts with my wife. I choose to mostly be silent regarding my near-absolute disbelief in truth claims from the church, formed over the past seven years of my own personal study and research. Ironically, I’m a talker, and yet I constantly close the lid on my personal litany of LDS misgivings. My wife is an amazing person but I acknowledge we are not in the same space. She has consistently vocalized that she does not believe in nor care about the problematic history of the church, and sometimes subconsciously stereotypes those who choose to distance themselves from the LDS faith. I recently asked her if it would matter to her if Joseph Smith turned out to not have been a prophet; she responded with a solid “No.” I admit that I am occasionally envious of her ability to not be bothered by church history. Ultimately, though, she is much more important to me than my views of the church. In other words, if this is her faith and it makes her happy, I have no desire to tear it down. I would attend with her and continue to live most of the LDS lifestyle for as long as necessary. I try to engage her in seeing a more charitable view of those who disengage from traditional Mormonism. I objectively share church history with her and bring up opposing views in a non-challenging format. My attempts to be patient have gradually shown progress, and I’ve seen her views soften and enlarge in myriad ways. She is very close with her family, a large group from a small town in central Utah. I love them as family, but acknowledge they embody some of the questionable rural Utah church culture that tends to fill me with revulsion and discomfort; my wife has gradually rejected more and more of those tendencies and has expressed satisfaction at doing so. After many years serving as YM/Sunday school/EQ president, I will no longer accept callings that would require emphatic devotion (i.e., bishopric, etc.). Some topics I indirectly decline to teach, focusing instead on Christlike attributes and embracing concepts of service and personal responsibility. Perhaps this sounds odd for some, but I still want to be allowed to fully participate while being authentic. I want to work with the youth or adults; I love to teach, love to serve, and want to help my children be involved while still allowing them to grow up with as much accurate information as possible. I don’t mind that leaders are imperfect, and I don’t mind disagreeing with some other members’ views. I suppose I want to belong to a church that doesn’t want to make me believe in anything besides God (still figuring out what that really means to me). I want to participate without fitting a mold. I want to be an example to others without being the expected example. I want my friendships and involvement to not be contingent on professing belief in something I can no longer believe. In short, I wish I could display my disbelief without the implication of disownment. May 23rd, 2021 Today, I accepted a new calling as Teachers Quorum Advisor; my son will be a teacher at the end of this year. I am trying to live more authentically, so this is what I emailed my bishop (also a good friend of mine, just a year younger than I) afterwards: "Dear *****, I met with [2nd counselor] today and accepted the calling offered. I would love to be an Advisor for the Teachers quorum and think that I have a lot of dedication, love, guidance, and experience to give to the youth. Before you sustain me, I'm going to clarify some things so that you know what to expect from me: 1. I don't teach or bear testimony of the historicity or truth claims of the church as my personal views; if I do address them, I do so as accurately as possible and present them as the positions taken by the LDS faith. 2. I do not participate in any teachings or traditions that I personally consider potentially harmful, damaging, or inconsistent with my understanding of Christ's gospel. 3. My leadership style is servant leadership with a high focus on individuals, mentorship, love, acceptance, kindness, forgiveness, personal responsibility, and actively seeking faith in Jesus Christ through meaningful social, spiritual, physical, and intellectual ways. If you are okay with this, then I very much look forward to being a part of the youth program once again! I completed the Youth Safety Training today and will wait to be sustained before joining the youth activities. Love, Ben" I hadn't shared my faith journey with the bishop yet. My wife read the email with pursed lips and a furrowed brow and didn't say a word about it afterwards. I don't exactly know what I'm looking for by sharing this....I am desperately trying to communicate that I want to serve, while also not pretending to have a devout conviction I no longer possess. I'm not sure it's possible to have my cake and eat it too. **UPDATE He responded with understanding and told me they were excited to have me. I am feeling really good about it.

Stone Vs. Ice (September 29th, 2021)

As I struggle towards some sense of mutual understanding between me and my spouse, it’s hard to not feel the weight of discouragement. There’s so much emotion, so much apprehension packed into every crack of this crumbling wall we’ve built between each other over the past few years. We’ve traversed the same road together, but my patience is tested as I gently encourage, again and again, that she go against the deeply-ingrained instructions to always watch the road, only watch the road, never lose sight of the road; I want her to lift up her head and enjoy at least some of the same view of the majestic landscape with me. I even want to leave the road sometimes but am worried that we would lose sight of each other. She, on the other hand, is convinced that any deviation from looking at the road could result in immediate and catastrophic consequences. One wouldn’t think that it would be so difficult to simply raise their eyes to meet the view. But it is. It causes heartache. There’s a level of jealousy in me as I wonder what it would be like to not have tears shed over what type of underwear your spouse is wearing, or whether they wondered out loud whether they should try coffee for the first time. The topic can’t be breached, as it causes too much distress for one or both of us. Fourteen years of a terrific marriage, a strong marriage. Happy kids. Good times. Kind words. Meaningful experiences. And yet….I feel a tremendous sense of fragility, reinforced by messages of “you aren’t the person I married” simply due to my sheer inability to ignore the fact that my house of religion no longer has walls, and I can’t continue to pretend that they still stand. Our relationship was solid, strong, and then the weather changed. The breeze is warm and beautiful and refreshing and I haven’t felt like this…ever? Until I realize that our relationship maybe wasn’t made of stone. It's ice, and it’s melting in this new context. I don’t know what’s within it. Is it iron? Is it flimsy? Will there be anything at all with the ice gone? The worst part is that I simply cannot control the weather. It’s here. It is what it is, and I just hope the ice is simply a thin outside layer of a strong foundation. But I’ve got neighbors whose foundations were all ice, and those relationships have dissolved into the ground to leave nothing but great piles of mud where a love mansion once stood. So I’m not waiting. I’m rebuilding as the ice melts. I’m doing everything I can to reinforce that we are more than ice, that we have real structure, that we will be fine in this new weather. We don’t have to go anywhere, we can stay right here and be different than the way we were, maybe even better than the way we were. And at the end of the day, I realize that to some degree I’m just speaking to myself. And therefore we walk together, along the life road, with my arm around her. She knows I’m looking around. It makes her nervous. Occasionally she’ll glance up, but the guilt is too strong so she’ll immediately bring her gaze back to the road. Sometimes she’ll look up at me for a change, and it seems like she is okay not viewing the road if she can focus on me and not the surrounding landscape. I look forward to learning how to be more together in this, with her, somehow. Thank you for having this safe space for me to try to express it all.

Cathedral (March 20, 2022)

Went to a cathedral yesterday with my son while visiting Washington DC. We sat in meditative silence while a tearful young woman and her loved one visited the candle area (forgive my ignorance, I do not know about Catholic traditions). After they left, my son and I approached the front and, in a gesture of respect, we copied their farewell and dropped to our knees for a moment and bowed our heads. I loved the beauty of the cathedral, the imagery that was there and the feeling of reverence. I loved that I, a Mormon stranger, could walk right in the door and feel that it was a place dedicated to some sort of holiness. I yearn for our temples to be open this way. I am no longer allowed there, after a lifetime of service that continues to this day, because I choose to not answer the TR questions out of personal objection to this game of "worthiness" that we play. It was beautiful, yesterday. Today the memory is tinted with regret that I feel as though my beautiful church seems to push exclusivity instead of invitation, obedience instead of discipleship.

Wetlands

I look out at the marshy wetlands of eastern Oregon. Golden colors mix with brown trees against a backdrop of various shades of green. A clear stream chases swaths of wildflowers that stretch their petals towards the blue and white sky. It’s so wild and seemingly disorganized, yet its very complexity gives it a depth that human construction can never achieve. The manicured lawns amidst sprawling homes, the predictable patterns of circles and squares and movement; nothing compares to the majesty of nature’s perfectly meshed chaos. The wild nod of the field reminds me that the escalating intricacy of my worldview is giving way to a beautiful array of life, though it is very different than the one I previously led. Perhaps the most troubling part: I don’t know where God is anymore. His presence left with the treatment of mental illness years ago, like marveling at the utter cleanliness of a glass door until one day you walk through it and realize there was no door at all. Was God ever even there? Without the comfort of my ecclesiastical structure, what remains of Him? I had based nearly my entire life on a single, overarching concept: God speaks to me through His Prophet. Now, all that remains is a voice in my head. It’s no better than another’s, but it’s mine. Somehow, I have to figure out moral authority for my own soul. I still listen to messages, but now I repeat them until they are mine. If I turn the words over until I feel they don’t fit, I discard them into my “potentially useful someday” mental barrel. If they repulse me and I feel they will do nothing but contaminate my spirit, I toss them into my mental bonfire.