#Fiction Friday: #Micropoetry from the Book

Mormoni

The candles in the chapel had burned out,
the smell of sulfur was strong.
I called out to God in the dark,
& He answered in David’s voice.

The Church was the lie that led me to the truth.
Had the Church never happened,
my parents would still be alive—
one living a lie,
the other, just lying.

I had experienced salvation at St. Mary’s—
not through my works,
but through an act of faith
in which a wondrous work
had been wrought in me.

The Church had touched that part of me that was spiritual,
David,
the part that was sensual,
& Mother,
the part that was psychologically fragile,
for I was a doll that had been broken
in many places,
without realizing I had been broken at all.

I did not want to short the Lord,
because for giving His all,
He asked for 10 percent of my income,
a seventh of my time,
& my whole heart.

 

#Fiction Friday: #Micropoetry from the Book

Mormoni

David was divine—
a father, like God,
a brother, like Jesus,
& a feeling, like the spirit
the missionaries spoke of—
the feeling that converted.

The crucifix served as a focus
for my self-induced hypnosis
as I convinced myself that
this 3-headed entity
called “The Godhead” existed.

I saw in God the Father,
a father;
in Heavenly Mother,
a woman of awe & mystery,
& the mother of the One who saw me as His.

I had just now given myself permission
to believe in something I could not see,
simply because I wanted to.
I was free—free to believe in Him.

I was ready to accept Jesus into my heart,
whether He existed or not;
I accepted the idea of Him,
& when I did,
He came,
& stayed.

#Fiction Friday: #Novelines from the Book

Mormoni

Catholicism was the older sister of Mormonism: The Catholics had their pure nuns, touched by none, the Mormons their women, touched by one.

David’s face was bathed in beams of light, looking like one of those angels on Christmas cards. It was his face that eclipsed the moon. My eyes were at half-mast, I felt drunk as if with strong wine. I was the hypnotist’s stepdaughter, mesmerized by eyes rather than a pocket watch.

I called God as my witness that night at St. Mary’s, that David & I would be static characters in the dynamic play we were being written in.

Though we were all invited—we could not enter heaven unless we brought the temple recommend, or invitation— which is how Brother Wiley put it.

The man I thought was Jesus told me He’d been waiting for me all my life, & led me up the aisle like a bridegroom—the moonlight, my veil.

“I am who I am,” the figure said, & when I entered his arms, the smell of sweet spices permeated my being, & I was in a euphoric state, awash in a wave of an ecstasy I hadn’t known existed.  My breathing had become shallow, my heart beat faster, & I cried out, “Oh, God!”, & awoke in David’s embrace.

The scent of the man David was like incense to my soul. I breathed him in. There was a very visceral part of me that wanted to take him in.

This rapture didn’t spirit me up to Heaven, but rather, gave me a sense of belonging on earth I had never felt before.

I ask not for signs and wonders from You, God, but I will accept that You do, indeed, exist, and that Thou lovest me.  Through faith alone, I will believe.  That was my Doubting Thomasina prayer.

 

#Fiction Friday: #Micropoetry from the Book

Mormoni

When Mother married David,
it was for them.
When she would die as
the result of a lethal conception,
it was for them.
Everything she would ever do
for would be for them &
because of them.

I was in love with a boy I didn’t understand,
but the boy who understood me,
I loved as a friend &
could only love as more
in the absence of all the others.

When I was a child,
I was childlike.
When I became a woman,
I would set my child aside,
for I was still a child myself.

Snapshots were captured moments,
portraits, created moments.
The former was for families like theirs,
the latter, for a family like mine.

I had never taken a walk with Jesus,
like the Protestants.
I had never spoken to His mother,
like the Catholics.
Rather, I sought the head of the
Heavenly household:
His Father.

#Fiction Friday: #Micropoetry from the Book

Mormoni

Mother had become an entity—
a Thing to Be.
Her properties were fine,
her features, refined,
but as much as I tried to pour myself
into her mold,
I would not come out quite right,
for she was made of the right stuff.

The Mennonite women had their kapps,
the Pentecostals, their long skirts,
but the Mormons had their garments—
the men & the women.
There was total fashion equality.

Catholicism was built on tradition—
an ageless woman bedecked with jewels,
her robe stained glass—
a fragile coat of many colors.

They fasted to strengthen their resistance to the flesh,
but ate to strengthen & nourish their bodies.
They got an education not just to be prosperous,
but to be more like the God who knew it all.

I had been taught scripture for educational purposes;
now I learned it for a spiritual purpose,
for knowledge was the glory that was God.

#Fiction Friday: #Novelines from the Book

Mormoni

Life as a Mormon had a sameness to it—a consistency I found comforting. A part of me felt I had come into the world belonging to the Church.

My friends in the Church had had a life prior to Mormonism, & so a part of me wondered if the Church was simply a gathering place for like minds to meet.

“Only the true Church would tell you to go to the Source, instead of asking you to take their word for it,” was Mother’s testimony.

There was going to be a talent show at the ward Christmas party, & it was then I looked in myself & saw I was but a consumer of talent.

My mother had become, in many of the brethren’s eyes, a woman of great piety—a saint—but not in the Catholic way.

Mother had dethroned Sister Wiley with her lowly humility to become God’s Royal Highness.  To be a queen, she had to first be a servant.

Sister Wiley’s star was dimming, even as Mother’s was burning brighter, becoming a red giant. The Church was a black hole swallowing her up, turning her into one, for no light could escape her.

Caitlin had woven herself into the fabric of the squares with the Green Haven Ward, sometimes keeping us in stitches.

#Fiction Friday: #Micropoetry from the Book

Mormoni

Faith was the acceptance
of things that could not be proven,
& hope that our faith
would get us those things
from that which could not be proven.

He’d wanted no children,
but he would have them
for salvation’s sake,
for his wife’s happiness,
& because,
in the Church,
conception was akin to birth.

In Catholicism, God was everywhere;
in Mormonism, He was not.
He’d gone from limitless
to contained
as the sole Ruler
of this world,
in an eternity of worlds.

My friend Brad would’ve given up the priesthood for me,
David, his own soul,
but Elder Roberts,
not even his reputation;
I had meant that little to him.

If my heart was hardened,
had God Himself hardened it—
like He had Pharaoh’s—
to bring about His work?
Was not autonomy an illusion?