My Amazing Metamorphosis

The Road Not Taken Robert Frost , 1874 - 1963 Two roads diverged in a yellow wood, And sorry I could not travel both And be one traveler, long I stood And looked down one as far as I could To where it bent in the undergrowth; I shall be telling this with a sigh Somewhere ages and ages hence: Two roads diverged in a wood, and I— I took the one less traveled by, And that has made all the difference I have loved this poem every since I memorized it in high school. Would I choose the right road? Last year, I finally came to that place in my life where there the two roads of my life diverged, I had two distinct choices that lead in opposite directions. For the first 39 years of my life, I had always made choices that kept me on the road that was most comfortable, the most planned out, the straight and narrow road. I committed to staying on that road at a very young age. It looked something like this; Try to live the life that my Savior has for me

We moved this week. It was difficult and painful and all of my fingernails are broken. I don't really think that a broken fingernail is a big a deal, but when ALL ten are broken... AND filed down to the skin, that's different. My hands are dry and rough. I feel like a teenager battling a fingernail biting habit (and loosing). Bad nails are just one of the pains of moving. Aside from the bad nails, moving can be very cathartic. It has been. I had to look at every object in my entire house and decide if it was worth moving. We had a lot of objects that were not worth moving. Why did I buy all of those nice looking button up shirts for my teenage boys? Why does my daughter have four boxes of stuffed animals? Maybe I shouldn't keep buying her stuffed animals. And Legos...wow, my son has a lot of Legos. Granted, he is the youngest of four boys, but he really does have a ridiculous amount, and yes, we kept them all. It felt good to get rid of so much stuff.

I had always tried to lead a Christlike life. I read the scriptures and listened to my religious leaders. I dutifully obeyed. I didn't question (very much). I wanted the same belief and obedience for our children. My husband and I frequently and regularly taught classes at church to the youth. We frequently took our kids to Utah to visit the church headquarters. We took them to early morning seminary everyday in high school (a one hour religious studies class). We took them to (very expensive) church youth camps during the summer. We took them to church dances and activities. As a family, we read scriptures in the mornings together, we prayed several times a day, we fasted once a month and we constantly reinforced the "truthfulness" of the church. When I loved others and showed compassion, it felt good, even Christlike. When I saw others teaching and caring for my family, it felt good. It felt good to go to church. It moved me to tears to sing hymns together. It f

I LOVE breakfast. I wake up hungry. No... starving. My husband thinks I'm crazy. He would not even dream of eating breakfast before 10 am, but then technically, it's not even breakfast, it's brunch. My ten year old son takes after me. He is so concerned with the meal the following morning, that he asks me nightly, what I'll be preparing for the morning's menu. "Good night, Mom. I love yo... hey, what are you making for breakfast tomorrow?" My five year old has it the worst. She breaks down into a flood of tears if she does not eat within the first ten minutes of her morning. I now resort to giving her a cup of dried cereal, while I prepare breakfast. This morning I made German Pancakes. I don't know if the recipe is German or not. When I was growing up, we called it called Dutch Shoes. It doesn't look German or taste shoe-ish. It's just good... Directions for German Pancakes, or Dutch Shoes, or whatever name you make up

In the summer of 2011 our family decided to take a trip out East. We went for a family reunion in Navoo. We wanted to show our kids the sacred place where the Mormon began.  As we took our kids to the Pageant (where they act out parts from the Book of Mormon), we had to pass through loud protesters. They carried signs and handed out pamphlets filled with "anti-Mormon" literature.  We quietly walked on past. When we got home from our trip, my husband decided to do a little research. He did not want to be unprepared and without facts the next time we encountered protesters to our faith.  I will never forget how I felt when he asked me to come see something he had found on Wikipedia.  It was a detailed list of all of the (many) wives of Joseph Smith Jr. (the founder of the Mormon church). I was shocked. All of my life I had been raised Mormon. I had dutifully gone to church every Sunday. I had studied the scriptures and manuals. I had learned all about the l

Today is the one year anniversary. One year ago today, I was a Mormon. My husband was a Mormon AND the leader of our local congregation (called a Bishop). I took my seven kids to church for (at least) three hours every Sunday. Most of my friends were Mormon. Most of my family (and my husband's family) were Mormon. It was all I knew. It was what I believed. It was an integral part of my daily thoughts and actions. That is why it was so hard for my oldest son to tell me. That is why he hid his real self. That is why he prayed fervently and fasted regularly... There was no way that God would have made him gay. Being gay went against our religion. Being gay was a serious sin. Being gay would keep you out of heaven. He didn't plan on telling me. He didn't know if he would even be alive long enough for it to matter. He didn't know what to do, so he stopped eating. He went two and a half days without food, until his sight started to blur. That is when I no