How to Handle a Stepford Mormon

                Two days before my 17^th birthday, my brother was in a snowmobiling accident at a young men’s campout and broke his leg badly. The day before my 17^th birthday, our car broke down. Fortunately I had the next day off work, so I spent my 17^th birthday tending to my seven younger siblings while my parents were gone all day dealing with the car and caring for my older brother. We had a small birthday party in the hospital room and my mother apologized that it wasn’t better.

                The thing is, I honestly didn’t mind. I was glad that it was my birthday. Had it been one of my younger sibling’s birthdays instead, I would have felt an obligation to bake a personalized cake for them and cook their favorite meal like my mother always did. The last time I had tried to make a birthday cake, it turned out looking something like this: 

(Apparently you're supposed to let it cool before you frost it. Who knew?)

                So I was just glad that, if everything was going to go crazy on a birthday, it was mine. Because I really was OK with it, and I preferred that to the stress of trying to make up for my mom being gone on someone else’s birthday.

                The day after my 17^th birthday, I went to a Young Women’s meeting. I was in the Laurel Class Presidency and was responsible for the birthday list. Had it been any other girl’s birthday that week, I would have made sure something was planned to wish her a happy birthday. But that week wasn’t a normal mutual meeting. It was New Beginnings with food and a program for all the Young Women and their parents. So I sure wasn’t going to worry about my birthday and I didn’t really expect anyone else to either.

                I spent much of the evening answering questions about my brother and how he was doing. Nobody wished me a happy birthday. Again, this didn’t bother me. My brother’s leg was far more important to me than my birthday anyway. I stayed after to help take down decorations and put away tables. That was when two of my Young Women’s leaders pulled me aside, stuck a paper crown on my head, pulled out a cupcake and sang “Happy Birthday.”

                I still remember how I felt. Important. Loved. Remembered. I didn’t know I needed to feel any of those things that night. But then when it happened, I almost cried.

               It wasn’t any of the things they gave me that mattered. If I’d wanted a cupcake, I would have made one (I could make cupcakes successfully). If I’d wanted someone to sing to me, I could have just asked anyone to sing to me and they would have. But it wouldn’t have meant anything. The only reason that meant anything was because I didn’t ask for it. I hadn’t reminded anyone that it was my birthday. They just cared.

                So when people ask me what I need or how they can help me, I don’t usually have an answer. What am I supposed to say? “I need you to give me sincere compliments as often as possible.” Or maybe, “I would like you to magically know when I’m feeling lonely and text me just to ask how I am.” I’m a pretty capable, independent person. I’ve lived most of my life without needing “service”.

                I don’t ask questions in Sunday School because I already know the answers: Live the gospel. If I’m having a hard time, I don’t need someone to tell me to pray or go to the temple. I’m already doing it. I’m healthy. I’m employed. I have transportation. I have family support. I rely on my Savior. I’m fine. I really am fine.

                I don’t want you to try to fix things for me because you can’t. My deepest struggles and my most profound fears are related to walking the fine line between where my greatest strengths become my greatest weaknesses. The farther I climb, the more the path narrows and the sharper the drop off on either side. I’m terrified of heights – both literally and metaphorically. 

I go canyoneering with my brother (oh yeah, his leg got better) and we get to obstacles that make me shrink because I know I could get hurt. Really hurt. Sometimes I know I will get hurt. I have been scared so badly that my entire body quivered as I lost control of my muscles. And there usually isn’t anything my brother can do. In the end, I just have to do it. And I know that. But I make my brother sit there for ten minutes while I get up the courage. I hate it if he starts to scout ahead instead of just watching me get through it.

(This is one of my first times rappelling. I literally cried for like five minutes right before this picture was taken.)

                So what do I want? I want you to let me see your soul and know that I am safe there. When you ask me what’s wrong, and I say “I don’t know,” I want you to sit me down and ask me questions until I figure it out. I want you to pay enough attention that you know something is wrong. I want you to want to know me – not because of any obligation or to try to help me, but because you genuinely want to understand how I work and why I feel what I feel, because I am a fascinating daughter of God. I want you to pray for me every day and act on every prompting you receive. Because if you just ask me what I need, most of the time I don’t have a clue.

                Is there anything you can do for me? I don’t know. Can you be the kind of friend I described, instead of just someone I see at church and chat with about school and work and movies? I would have to need you. And you would have to need me, too. That kind of friendship doesn’t just happen. It’s a gift from God. And He doesn’t give it to everyone in every friendship. We mortals can’t handle that much divine love and compassion for everyone (hence Ammon fainting all over the place).

                Somebody recently told me “you don’t love someone until you’ve seen their pain.” It’s true. That’s when I love people. I don’t think many people have seen my pain. Because I don’t show it. That’s how I am. I’m not sure if that’s good or bad. I’m not sure if I want to change it, or how much I want to change. I like that I can put other people’s needs ahead of my own. I don’t want to talk about myself to people who aren’t really interested. I kind of like that there is a good portion of myself that is reserved for those who are closest to me.

                But I don’t want to be unapproachable. I don’t want to put up barriers. Outside of my immediate family, everyone that’s ever gotten deep enough to see the things that hurt has put in a lot of effort to get there. They’ve had to ask. They’ve had to be patient. They’ve had to push a little. And I want them to do it. But why would they want to? How would they know I need a friend? How would they ever feel comfortable asking hard questions? I don’t. I usually err on the side of being polite. How do you break past that? I don’t know how to just do that. Every time it’s happened, it’s been the Spirit. Other than that, I don’t know what makes the difference.

     This post doesn’t really have a conclusion. Everything else I’ve written so far has been me looking back on things that I’ve figured out. This is where I am now. Incidentally, I don’t want you to fix it :) I think this blog is part of me figuring it out.