The Gods of Christmas

On Saturday, I set out to finally get some of the last presents on my list. But the freeway exchange I needed to take was closed, so I found myself on a detour in a somewhat unfamiliar part of town. I’d almost made my way back to the freeway, but before I made it to the onramp, I noticed a pupuseria, a Salvadoran restaurant.  I couldn’t help myself from pulling into the parking lot. When I walked in Maná was blasting too loudly from the juke box and a soccer match played on the TV screens mounted around the restaurant. I smiled. Families sat at tables eating pupusas and sopa.  A few workers with paint-splattered clothes who were on their lunch break sat eating plates of beans, rice and beef. On the walls hung several El Salvador flags, a few maps of the country and traditional Salvadoran folk art showing women making pupusas at food stands and harvesting corn and local vegetables. I immediately felt at home and my spirit lifted. I walked up to the counter to order.  I could hear the women in the back slapping the masa back and forth between their hands making the pupusas and thick Salvadoran tortillas. I selfishly wanted to speak Spanish to the girl at the counter even though I knew she was from California. I asked first if I could speak Spanish with her because some Latinos get offended if you presumptuously speak Spanish to them. They don’t want you to think that they don’t know English. She said, “sure,” so I ordered. I ate as much as I could, then ordered some more pupusas ‘to go’ for my family. By the time I left, I‘d lost the desire to get back on the freeway and continue shopping. I just went home. Being in the pupuseria pulled me for a minute out of my consumer fetishism. I didn’t want to ruin the peaceful disposition that had come over me. I figured we’d just make do without whatever it was that I was going to go buy … or more likely, I’d just order it online.

I’m just having trouble pin-pointing purpose with Christmas this year.

While living out of the country for over a decade, I didn’t feel a lot of pressure to create Christmas traditions. Usually I’d pull together some decorations and partake in the local traditions to the extent that I understood them. Most years we’d travel back to the US where we’d make the best of Christmas trying to piece together old traditions with divorced parents and spread out family. Now that we live in the States, I feel pressure to establish traditions like the ones I see everybody doing. But they mostly feel contrived and excessive. Not that I’m any kind of minimalist, but Christmastime makes me envy those who are.

How are the none’s handling this time of year, I wonder? No, that’s not a typo. I mean, I do kind of wonder what nuns do at Christmas, cloistered away from the cares of the world.  But the none’s I’m referring to is that group of people that would check the box that says “none” when asked their religion on surveys. I almost envy them at Christmas time too.  They don’t have to pretend that any of our pagan traditions have something to do with the Savior. I wonder if just ignoring that Christ exists is better than making a mockery of Him. I feel like I’m stuck in the middle of two loyalties: worshiping the God of Materialism and The True God who gave life, and who gave us His son. So, who or what is lying in the manger of your nativity?  I hope I’m teaching my family to search for hope in the Savior instead of the packages under the tree.

Does God give us a pass on our Christmas excess if we are lighting the world at the same time?

I’ve had people ask me if I celebrate Christmas when they find out I’m Mormon, possibly trying to distinguish Mormons from Jehovah’s Witnesses in their minds. I often reply with a hearty, “Oh, yeah, we celebrate all holidays” with a tone that implies that we’re not as ‘strange’ as those religions that do not.  But there is a part of me that respects the J Dubs too. They’ve thrown off many worldly traditions and have the integrity to label them as such despite social consequences.

In theory, I love the idea of stripping down our Christmas traditions to only the most meaningful. But, in reality, there are many superfluous traditions I don’t want to give up. The preparations to create an inviting Christmas ambiance: glowing candles, a crackling fire, twinkling Christmas lights, the scent of cinnamon and pine. Rushing into a cozy house, greeted by carefully cooked food that comforts and sweet hot drinks that warm you as they go down. Familiar carols that make us happy because we’ve always sung them during a season in which we focus on giving and gathering. Christmas movies that we watch over and over. The sentimentality we indulge in at Christmas time is permitted in a way it’s not at any other time of the year.

Santa is a little bit tougher though. I see Santa as an impostor, a character who has warped the true meaning of Christmas, which is to rejoice in the birth of the One who gives life, saves and is the giver of all good gifts. Some say I have a special place reserved in hell because we’ve never included Santa as part of Christmas for our kids. We’d still fill their stockings and have their big present set out on Christmas morning, but never made any part of it about Santa. Of course, as the kids grew, they asked me about Santa, I simply explained that he represents the tradition of giving without receiving. And then I explained that while Santa isn’t real, people carry on this tradition because it’s exciting and fun to anticipate a stranger coming to give presents.  Then I’d segue into talking about the real giver of good gifts, The Savior.  I am not suggesting anyone should abandon the tradition of Santa. Not doing Santa was something Jeremy and I agreed on and felt worked best for our parenting approach.

I guess we each need to claim Christmas and celebrate it on our own terms.

My neighbor has done this beautifully. Unlike me, she loves Santa because she sees him as the embodiment of The Spirit of Christmas. For her, Santa spreads hope and teaches us how to give without expecting things in return.  Of course, she sees Santa this way because she has spent a lifetime giving to others, providing Christmas for hundreds over the years. She gives all year long and the myth of Santa provides a space for her to give even more than usual.

I’m not sure how to reconcile. Like all things in life, we see Christmas traditions through many viewpoints and we live out and love our perspective. But whether St. Nick is your demi-god of materialism, your sentimental teddy bear warming the nostalgic fire of childhood, or your guardian angel of generosity and happiness, I wish you all a Merry Christmas!

Cycles of Dysfunction

I took a Women’s Studies class at BYU where we explored cycles of dysfunction. Cycles of dysfunction are destructive behaviors that pass from generation to generation and inhibit healthy familial relationships. As part of the class, we each explored the cycles we were subject to through our female progenitors.  It wasn’t until I went through the process, that I realized that I was caught up in a cycle of dysfunction. My mother, grandmother and great-grandmother had all married men who could not, or would not, take them to the temple.  Now, its fine to not get married in the temple if one doesn’t want that for themselves.  But, there is evidence that each of these women wanted a temple marriage. They went to church. They got all their children baptized. They had problems in their marriages, in part, because of their differing beliefs from their husbands.  All the marriages ended in divorce. For my mother, her divorce resulted in a psychotic break, from which she never completely healed. To this day, she suffers from debilitating mental illness. My mother has passed the greater part of her later-adult life as a shut-in, just as her mother did. It was not necessarily the marrying a non-Mormon that was dysfunctional, but the naive thinking that a religion that meant so much to them and nothing to their husbands wouldn’t pose a problem. So, for these believing women, not marrying a man who believed likewise, seemed to be a factor in some of the profound struggles they faced.

While writing up my findings for my class, it became clear to me that I was following the pattern set by my matriarchal line. Of my mother’s two daughters, I was the believer. I was seriously dating a guy who was not, a guy I’d loved since high school.  As I prayed about my situation, a clear answer came: I needed to break things off with him if I wanted a different outcome than my mother. Obviously, the Lord might direct others to do things differently. But for my journey, the Lord made clear to me that I needed to sharply change course.

The night He answered my prayer, I got real with Heavenly Father. I bargained with the Lord, something we are not supposed to do. But I felt like our relationship was strong enough and that I could bare my soul.  He’d seen me through a lot. We had history. I told the Lord, “OK, I’ll do it.  I’m not sure how, but I’ll do it. But, Lord, thou knowest me and how much I need love. And here I have someone who I love, who loves me back.  And I’m going to give that up for thee. But, please realize that if I don’t find love again soon, I might not be able to make it. I want to do thy will. I want to do what’s right. I want the Temple. And even if love doesn’t find me again soon, I’ll try. I’ll always try. But it’s just I’m afraid that I won’t make it. Please help me.”

***

“But I’ll take the missionary discussions,” he offered.

“It’s just not going to work out,” I willed myself to say. Tears began to form in my eyes.  “Believe me, I wish with all of my heart it didn’t have to be this way.  I wish I didn’t believe, it would make things so much easier.” We both cried. We exchanged I-love-you’s and gave one last hug good-bye.

In saying good-bye to him, I laid my will on the altar of the Lord. And it was one of the most difficult things I’d ever done.

As I walked to my car I sobbed. I immediately regretted my decision.  I wanted to turn around and say, “Never mind, I take it all back. We can find a way to make it work.” Every ounce of my intuition, screamed with horror.  Subconsciously, the collective psyches of my mother, grandmother, and great-grandmother, weighed on me. That weight, an invisible but all consuming force, compelled me to continue in their cycle of dysfunction: choose a man who loved me, but who had little interest in the Gospel of Jesus Christ. The gaping hole I felt in my soul seemed almost too much to bare.  The sheer discomfort of it all made me want to vomit. “If I turn around now, I could probably catch him,” I thought.

But somehow, I didn’t go after him. A superior force came to my rescue and repeated to me the clear revelation I’d heard before: “Break it off.”  So, I drove home.

Within 6 months, Jeremy literally came knocking at my door. I honestly believe he was the reward for my sacrifice, but my happily-ever-after didn’t instantly materialize.

When Jeremy proposed, I only loved him 90%, but I said yes anyway. I couldn’t feel that extra spark for him because I was wired and nurtured to feel excited about someone who would display love the same way I saw it as a kid.  But when Jeremy came along, he was so different than anyone I’d ever dated or even met. I knew the Lord was telling me, in essence, here is your chance to have what you want. I knew in my soul that he was sent from Heavenly Father. I knew somehow we’d figure it out.

Initially in our marriage, I thought if Jeremy changed I could love him completely. If he was just more gregarious and more out-going, I could love him all the way. But a few years into our marriage, I had an epiphany that I needed to be concerned for Jeremy’s feelings. I know, big revelation, right? For the first few years of marriage, I was mostly concerned that he treated me right, with the respect I deserved.

At some point in my life, I’d become afraid to love wholeheartedly.  So, to justify not loving fully, I found faults in Jeremy. When I realized that I was the one who needed to change, and that the problem wasn’t Jeremy, it became easy to love him completely. And when I loved him for who he was, a miraculous thing happened. Between his job and callings at church, he grew and developed, and he became really good at connecting with people. Not only that, I started to notice his sense of humor more and more. I’m not sure if my loving him unconditionally allowed him to grow or if my increased love permitted me to see what had been there all along.  Anyone marrying in their early 20’s has a lot of growing up to do. I sure did. But, I’d always been introspective. That ability to look inward led me to discover what I needed to change and helped see us through the self-centered nature that I came to the marriage with.

Looking back now it's abundantly clear that it never would have worked out with my boyfriend from high school. With years of perspective, I understand that what I felt for him was the shallow exhilaration of being wanted, conflated with the weight of dysfunction tethered to me. The pain that I felt in breaking it off was a result of stepping out of the pattern I had learned, internalized and felt comfort in repeating. Sure, some of the sadness came from letting go of someone I cared about, but the soul gripping pain had nothing to do with him. It was the pain of breaking with ingrained models and losing a relationship that was comfortably following in the footsteps of my mother.  It would have been so easy to stay and avoid the pain, and say it was all for love. But that would have been lying to myself, and I knew it.  And deep down, I wanted something more.

If you know Jeremy, you understand that Heavenly Father blessed me a hundred-fold for my sacrifice.  I couldn’t have dealt with my deep-seated issues as effectively being married to any other man. Besides being dedicated to the gospel of Jesus Christ and his family, he is secure and confident without the arrogance that sometimes accompanies those traits. An insecure man would have made me feel bad when I gained weight, because an insecure man thinks of his wife as an object whose looks and accomplishments reflect his worth. When I quit diet pills for good, I knew Jeremy would love me no matter what. His unconditional love made it easier for me to name and face my irrational demons about my weight.  A lesser Mormon man would have shamed me for drinking caffeine, because he would have feared my habits might cause others to question his worth or reflect badly on him. An insecure man would have panicked when I struggled with church history and policy. Instead, Jeremy listened and didn’t try to talk me out of my concerns. He’d only offer his point of view when I asked. Through his support, I passed through a period of deep questioning about the church and came out with a stronger faith than when I began. And when periodic depression overwhelms me, and I can’t stop being sad or do the things that for most people are easy, but for me seem like monumental tasks, he loves me still.  He doesn’t make me feel that I need to be anything other than who I am.

What I have now is a relationship that is mature, full, profound.  It is one where deep trust and complete love exist which has allowed me to blossom in ways that I could never have imagined as a young woman.

Now, lest I paint our relationship too rosily, let me assure you that there are…things. Like he’s not handy around the house. His working from home this past year and a half has proved a challenge, because we’ve had to define new boundaries and expectations. I have to let him know when I want to have an in-depth conversation and then, if he’s busy working or tired we have to schedule it. This works fine when we are dealing with administrative stuff but is maddening at other times. He can be disconnected or detached, because that’s his coping mechanism. But we manage these challenges because we have a solid foundation.

Some patterns of dysfunction or “evil traditions” are less obvious than others. For some families, there might be cycles of gossiping, fault-finding, shaming, holding grudges, only including people who are “active” Mormons, judging those who leave the faith, disrespecting women, differing expectations for sons and daughters about mission and education, an emphasis on material possessions, an emphasis on appearance, or any number of misguided traditions that were passed down through family culture. Obviously, there are many ways to be dysfunctional and we won’t ever have perfect families (the idea that such a thing exists here on earth is dysfunctional). But its important to try and overcome the dysfunction that gets in the way of the happiness we truly seek.

In the end, our lives are really just the stories we tell ourselves.  And in the narrative I’ve told myself, the above story is pivotal. It is this story that is the keystone of my faith.  It is the experience that tells me that when I trust the Lord, he delivers abundantly. When I sacrificed my entire identity at 16 to come back to the church, he delivered. When I gave up who I thought to be the love of my life, he delivered. When I couldn’t get pregnant, and after almost two years of anguish, I told Heavenly Father it was fine and I’d accept his will, I got pregnant with twins.  He makes more out of my life than I ever could alone.