When I was young, my grandparents home was not overly warm and inviting to many of the grandchildren in my family. I was one of them. But my grandparents had a large atlas and I spent hours and
hours flipping through the pages, tracing my fingers along rivers and roads I
had never seen before. The maps were my
favorite plaything during the times I visited their home in the Ozarks. Sitting cross-legged in the middle of a
circle of trees that my cousins and I nicknamed “the grove” I loved to open up
the atlas to states like New Hampshire and Oregon, imagining the names of the
people I would meet in towns like Bend and Londonberry. I faced a stern scolding from my grandmother
if I was caught with the atlas outdoors, but it was always worth the risk. Besides, I knew without a doubt that I would
never cause harm to come to the map. I
knew that I was trustworthy even if they did not.
When we were younger, my older sister and I had a silent
pact. We never got along very well, but
we were both soldiers in the same war.
Neither would betray the other.
Although unsaid, we had each other’s back, especially for the sake of
our younger brother. The time came,
inevitably, when that changed and I felt the bitter sting of her betrayal. Once after I had received a severe tongue
lashing from my grandmother for using words she felt were too big for me at my
age, I sought refuge in the atlas and a quiet corner on the front porch of the
house. My sister knew where I was, and
she knew that for once, I had been called to task for my different and quirky
ways. By this time, jealousy and
misunderstanding had crept in and clouded the unspoken truce we once
shared.
Knowing I was already down, my sister found my hiding spot
and, grabbing the page I was turning ripped down the center of Minnesota. I sat in disbelief for a moment, staring at
her and wondering why she would do that to me.
Her revenge was complete, and as my grandmother stepped through the
front door and found me sitting there with the ripped atlas in my hands, every
last accusation she had ever thrown at me came true on the spot. I was not one of her favorites. I came to realize many years later that she
had a special dislike for any of the blond haired girls in the family.
From that day forward, my place in the family was
determined. My guilt was set in
stone. Though we have spoken very little
since the days I stepped out on my own, my grandmother always found a way to
preach the gospel of my guilt to me through cards and letters and lectures,
even through third parties. I was never
redeemed in her eyes. I stopped
trying. My grandmother passed away more
than two years ago.
Redemption has become a theme in my life, and I never understood
how much until my faith compass shattered into a million pieces. Walking away from the fold and in
front of the faithful masses left me in a state of vulnerability unlike
anything I had ever known. Belonging to
the group is safe. Walking on the
outside is dark and cold and lonely.
For a little while refuge came in the collective anger of
others like me. But that went against my
own true nature and I found myself once again on the outside looking in. For a little while I clung tightly to God and
all that I had come to think was wrong with the Mormon worldview, but that soon
fell by the wayside, too. My place in
the world was no longer clear. I was
without a map and a grove a trees in which I could hide and find the stillness
of refuge.
By now, I honestly thought that this quest would be a thing
of the past. I was wrong. I still find myself yearning for pearls of
redemption. I face the test of my resolve constantly. It happened again just the other day, but in the trial I was handed a gift. I came face to face
with two of my harshest critics; two people that at one time meant the world to
me. I was a guest in their home and had
a constant place at their table. When my
faith collapsed that place closed, and so did their hearts. When met the familiar
coldness was evident with one, but the other of the pair embraced me with
opened arms. My quest has taken me over
many miles of rivers and roads to a place where I have begun to understand and accept
that my personal values and ethics are okay.
I’m still quite the newbie, but I’m learning, slowly, that living a life
in authenticity requires a kind of vulnerability and a ramrod straight
backbone. Maybe it is starting to pay
off. That meeting the other day netted two small victories for me.
The first victory came with the bit of respect I received
from this former ward member. My life
looked sunny and happy and hopeful to him.
I believe his reaction was sincere and genuine; he seemed glad for me.
The second victory came more from within. His companion was nowhere near as warm and
gracious, the coldness and rejection were clear. But I was able to leave the encounter with a smile on my face. I want the approval; I still seek
to remove the scarlet letter from my chest. Only now, I am learning to
weigh the costs against my own integrity.
Words still sting and rejection inspires tears and hurt, but there is a
freedom in the acceptance that it is a losing battle. I am learning to move forward, to move
on. And like the atlas, there are some
conclusions cemented in the hearts and minds of others that I will never be able to live down. I might as well walk my own path and be happy with the few who are content to walk alongside me than to wring my hands over those who take exception and offense to the road I am on.
